


Stability

by typecam



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typecam/pseuds/typecam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12-year-old Thomas struggles with insecurities and life adjustments after he and Michael are placed in a foster home. Mom AU, reader surrogate, max fluff, out of control, wow, end me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stability

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**  
>  This story contains anecdotal descriptions of life in a residential treatment center; the drama is muted, but any reader with an aversion to psychiatric wards might wish to be aware. There's also some vomit... look out for that. This story **does not** contain any type of abuse, graphic violence, or sexual content.

 

The paint's peeling off the streets again  
And I'll drive and close my eyes in Michigan  
And I feel nothing, not brave  
It's a hard day for breathing again

—Rilo Kiley, "Paint's Peeling"

 

* * *

"What are you smiling about?"

Michael usually comes to sleep in Thomas's bed when he's scared or stressed, but this time he's grinning ear to ear. Thomas is groggy. He pulls the covers back and lets his brother climb in. Michael snuggles against his chest. "I had a funny dream," he says.

"Oh yeah?"

"You had a giant head, and you couldn't fit through doors. And it made you really angry. And then..." He can't stop giggling. "Chris showed up, but his head was tiny—like the size of a grape! And you said his voice made your ears hurt because they were big. They were extra sensitive to noise."

"Michael, I'm going to tell you something." 

"What?"

"Listening to another person's dream is boring."

Michael just giggles some more. Thomas rolls his eyes. "You'd better quiet down before you get in trouble."

Michael cranes his neck and whispers forcefully into Thomas's ear, " _Is this too loud?_ "

"Shhhh!"

" _Shhhhhhhhh!_ "

They smack each other. Thomas grabs his pillow and pretends to smother Michael. "They'll never find your body!" he growls. Michael makes even more noise and kicks him in the shins. Thomas hears the on-duty supervisor's footsteps in the hall. He dives under the blanket. Michael follows the cue, and seconds later, illuminated in a bar of light from the cracked door, they're posed naturally, as if they've been asleep for hours.

They wait a few minutes to be sure the coast is clear. Then Thomas throws off the blankets. It's the height of July, and sharing a bed with another body is far too warm. He rolls off the mattress and sets to work repositioning their box fan. "I miss real air conditioning. This thing’s a joke unless you aim it right at you."

Michael sighs at the cool air. "We could always open the window."

"Don't the train horns wake you up?"

"Not really..."

"I hate those stupid trains. I'll be having a normal dream, then that horn goes off and suddenly I'm about to be hit by one of them." Thomas climbs back into bed. Before long, the fan's blast makes him shiver. He pulls the blanket up to his chin. Michael says something he can't hear over the noise of the blades.

"What?"

"I said, you're never satisfied with anything, are you?"

"Shut up and go to sleep, you pest." He cuddles Michael. "I'll use you for warmth if I have to." Michael says something else, muffled by Thomas's nightshirt. "Didn't catch that. Don't care."

Michael squirms to free himself. "I said, when we get out of here, you'll still use me for warmth, won't you?"

"Probably... but who knows when that will be."

"Even if you're seventeen, we'll still sleep together, okay? Deal?"

"Okay, deal. But you're gonna think it's weird."

"No I won't."

"You will."

"You don't know."

"I'm older, I know stuff you don't."

"Like what are hormones."

"Yeah. Exactly."

"I read in a book that—"

"Please don't tell me."

"But you know already!"

"Yeah, but that's part of being older. Everybody knows, but they don't tell each other. It's like a secret society."

"Like the Freemasons."

"I don't know or care what that is."

"See, you don't know everything." Thomas pulls his hair. "Ow!"

"Shush!"

" _You_ shush!" Michael tries to roll away from him, but he holds fast, and Michael's too worn out by now to struggle much. They settle down gradually, soothed by the fan's white noise. Soon Michael's breathing becomes slow and regular. His limbs twitch slightly as they relax.

Thomas still can't sleep. The last few months, he's been beset by low-key nausea and stomach pains. He slips out of bed as discretely as he can and wanders down the hall. The supervisor nods to him, glasses reflecting a small reading light. In the bathroom, he sips sink water from his cupped palms, splashes some on his face and combs it through his sweat-matted hair. Through the screen of an open window, the buzz of cicadas rises with the hum of an orange streetlight. A flag whips its metal rings against a pole. Just beyond the parking lot, he can hear the susurrus of traffic crossing on the highway overpass. He closes his eyes and pretends it's the ocean.

* * *

Beneath an ironclad facade of charm and innocence, Thomas isn't optimistic when their caseworker announces she's found a foster home for him and Michael. For one thing, the home in question isn't even in the same zip code—it's two hours south of the group home, which means three hours south of Chris. And for all that distance, it turns out the "family" is just a single parent.

"Kay has done well with older children in the past," their caseworker explains, "so we think she'll be a good fit for you two, under the circumstances."

The "circumstances" are, of course, the need for Thomas and Michael to be kept together, and the fact that Chris's legal emancipation won't occur for another three years—a long time for them to spend in the group home. With so many residents coming and going, it doesn't represent, as their caseworker puts it, a "permanency goal." Michael seems enamored with the idea of a real, long-term home, but Thomas isn't so sure.

"She knows she's not going to adopt us, right?"

"She understands that our goal is for your brother to be awarded custody, eventually."

"What if she tries to keep us? You said the state doesn't need our permission for adoption until we turn fourteen..."

"That's true. But adoption isn't as simple as filling out a request. It's a long process. There are a lot of considerations—your brother is one of them."

Michael stands next to Thomas, itching at one of his socks with the other foot. He looks meek, but he's always listening attentively. "We'd see Chris more, not less," he says all of a sudden. "If he came to visit, he could stay for days at a time."

"But it's so far away. He can barely come as it is."

Their caseworker gives them a patient look. "I've arranged a trial meeting for you and Kay. Let's follow up and see how it goes, okay?"

Thomas forces the sweetest smile he can. "Whatever you think is best, Ms. Jeon! You've never steered us wrong." He doesn't trust her at all. She tends to fill them in after-the-fact on premade decisions, and he has a sinking feeling this one is already sewn up.

* * *

"Trial meeting" sounds like a home visit, but in fact they meet Kay in a windowless room with table, a couple of cube chairs, and a stack of board games too juvenile for them to play. She's a plain, tallish woman in her thirties, dressed cleanly and wearing a placid expression. She greets them warmly, and they play a game of Uno to break the ice.

Michael seems shy at first, but soon he's peppering her with questions. Does she have any pets? (No.) Are there other kids in her apartment complex? (A few.) Will he and Thomas be allowed to share a room? (Certainly.) How late can they stay up? (TBD.) Will Chris be invited to visit? (Of course.) She offers them a bit about herself—she's a software engineer, works from home, grows cucumbers on her balcony, likes books and films. A thoroughly ordinary adult.

She indulges Michael with questions about his cards, and from their lively conversation, it's clear he's taken with her. Thomas stays quiet and smiles only when he has to, mostly for his caseworker. Pretty boring, he thinks. Vanilla. An unremarkable character. She's nothing to pin their hopes on. It's troubling to see how quickly Michael adheres to her. Was he that starved for parental attention? Thomas chews on his nails and waits for the hour to pass.

After ninety minutes, they stand to leave. It's an unceremonious parting, and Michael seems reticent. He asks to hug Kay goodbye. She gives him a squeeze and smooths his hair.

"It was great to meet you," she says. "I'll be back on Wednesday... sound good?"

Michael looks over to Thomas, then to their caseworker, then back to Kay. "Will we get to see your house?"

The caseworker flashes Michael a good-natured smile. "You'll be out of here before you know it. Don't wait until the last minute to pack your bags, okay?"

Thomas swallows and tries not to ruin his good face. So this was never intended to be a trial period—just a warm-up. The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth and makes him suspicious.

"Does Chris know about this?" he asks their caseworker as innocuously as he can. She assures him Chris is being looped in, although he hasn't returned any calls. Busy as usual.

* * *

Kay's apartment is clean and cozy, and smells like balsam. It's quiet, facing slightly away from the street. Everything is tidy. A few books are neatly arranged on the glass coffee table, and a black bookcase as high as the ceiling stands against the wall. Cool afternoon light spills through the window. Thomas and Michael crane their necks and scan everything from a distance, a bit hesitant. They kick off their shoes, which Michael thoughtfully places next to the door.

"Have a look around," Kay says, maybe to break the unnerving silence as much as anything.

Michael wanders about, circling the furniture and tracing new objects with his fingers. He seems particularly enraptured by the bookshelf—he's always drawn to books. But neither of them loiters anywhere for long. They look at each other, searching each other's faces for clues, for permission to be pleased. It's a standoff.

Kay stands quietly, watching them. Her expression is even, inscrutable. She doesn't seem to be expecting anything, just observing. Thomas, not knowing what else to do, feigns disinterest and stares at his own feet. Michael wanders over to her and lingers close. She pets his head lightly.

"Don't know about you two, but I'm starving. Want to have some lunch?"

That sounds good. Michael nods and wrings his eager hands together. Thomas cracks his knuckles. They follow her into the kitchen, a space as clean and well-organized as the living room, and perch uneasily atop the kitchen chairs as she assembles a plate of chips and sandwiches for each of them. The food is great—even though nothing's made from scratch, it still tastes better than anything from a food service provider. They haven't had a real homemade meal in a long time.

Once the boys have cleaned their plates, they're served ramekins of canned peaches dusted with cinnamon, and after that ice cream sandwiches. After two rich desserts, they're feeling full and sluggish. Michael gives a contented yawn and tilts his head at Thomas, who's licking chocolate cake off his fingers. Kay scoops up the dishes and makes swift work of them at the sink, still giving them her odd, even look—one that seems to endear her to Michael, but spooks Thomas. Her expression is too composed—it could easily mask disapproval. He should know.

"Can we see our room?" Michael asks, posing the question as much to Thomas as to Kay. Kay puts a gentle, guiding hand on Michael's shoulder, and they both look at Thomas. He slides out of his chair and follows them to the second door down the corridor. The room was evidently once the master bedroom, arranged now with two beds, a pair of dressers, a pair of desks and chairs. Outfitted for them, or for the fosters who came before? Thomas doesn't want to think about it. It doesn't matter—he won't let himself get comfortable here, he's already made up his mind. This place, it won't be _their_ home, not without Chris, and this woman isn't their mother. This is just one more stop on their journey. A lonely moonlit motel where they'll hole up for a while and leave no trace when their stay is over.

Poor Michael—he doesn't get it. He's already thrown himself facedown on one of the deep mattresses, squirming in delight. "It's comfortable," he sighs, "and I bet it's warm." He looks up at his brother. "Thomas, which one do you want?" Thomas lets Michael have the bed by the window. Fresh air feels good on summer nights, but he doesn't like to see the moon staring down on him. Gives him the creeps.

* * *

"When can we see Chris?" Michael asks, curled on the couch with a glass of juice. Thomas is chewing on his sweater's laces, idle.

"As soon as he can come... he said he would check the lab schedule. Once he gives us a date, I'll have the train tickets mailed to him." Kay is scribbling something on a pad. Michael gulps down the rest of his drink and crawls over Thomas to peer at her work.

"What are you writing?"

"It's my to-do list. Things get pretty complicated with you two around." She laughs softly. "Thomas, do you recall the last time you saw a dentist?"

"Something wrong with my teeth?" They're a little crooked, he's aware. But it's not like he doesn't brush them.

"No, no—just for a routine checkup. Did you have one while you were at the group home?"

"Nope."

She jots on her list. "Okay... two dental requests, coming right up." She ruffles Michael's hair. He beams and puts his head in her lap. Thomas rolls his eyes. He doesn't have it in him to bully Michael today, but something has his hackles up.

"I had to get a shot at the doctor," Michael tells Kay. "For tetanus, diphtheria, and pertussis."

"You really know your stuff."

"Thomas is due for his, too. He's supposed to get three HPV shots, but he's only had one."

"Hmm... is that true?"

Thomas glares at her. "How should I know?"

Kay reaches for the tablet on the coffee table and taps away, pulling up his medical records. "Wow," she says. "Michael, you really are spot on. Looks like he missed a dose 6 months ago." She pats Michael. "Thomas, aren't you lucky to have your little brother looking out for you?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You all right, babe?"

He bristles. "Don't call me that."

She shrugs off his surliness. "You know, if there's anything you want to talk about... I'm here, all right?"

"Fine." Bunch of fake crap. It was the same story in the group home. All about providing a supportive environment... but the minute there's a problem, nobody knows what to do. Easy to get lured into taking people at their word, but he'll never make that mistake again. The sessions he spent with the therapist, telling her how _angry_ he was and how he wished he could just burn the whole place to the ground and watch his caretakers scurry out of the flames like rats, how he fantasized about choking people to death... it wasn't a lie, but he wanted attention, and he got it—they sent him to a special treatment center for a month. They were the worst four weeks of his life. Even worse than losing his father, because he was alone, and all he could think of was Michael, crying his eyes out back at the group home, and Chris, who had no idea what was happening.

That was when he learned a little charm could go a long way. He put on a personality he'd never affected before, and it worked—but he couldn't keep it up after he returned. It was exhausting, and made him anxious. He hopes he won't have to use it on Kay. Three years, if all goes according to plan, is a long time.

Michael doesn't need to affect anything—Michael is effortlessly lovable, sprawled out now across Kay's lap like a kitten, having his scalp scratched and his belly rubbed. He's always been so trusting. Thomas feels a little sick. His heart is in his throat, and his stomach aches.

* * *

August passes in sullen days, and with each one Thomas grows surer that Kay doesn't like him. When the boys are together, she always tends to him first, as if she's pretending to favor the one she despises, daring him to be cordial with her. Then the more he ignores her, the more she dotes on Michael. It's obvious—she's trying to turn Michael against him.

And it's working. Subtly, because Michael would never abandon Thomas, but little by little, she's grooming the younger boy as her pet, guiding his love toward her and away from his brother. He's always running to her, gushing to her, clinging to her legs. On Friday nights, the three of them watch movies on the couch, Michael always nestled in the center. Rebuffed by Thomas, he'll snuggle into Kay so deeply that it's clear he isn't paying attention to the TV. Other nights, once he's finished another book, he'll plop himself down in her lap, tuck his head under her chin, and enjoy being stroked and soothed until he's too tired to keep his eyes open. "Precocious little lamb," she calls him. That sort of praise must remind Michael of their father, no doubt. Kay has read a lot, and sometimes she'll read to Michael just as Chris or their father used to.

Or maybe it's the novelty of feminine attention Michael is taken with—having his hair brushed, his nails scrubbed, his skin made sweet-smelling with soaps and lotions. He seems to delight in it. Kay isn't vain or impractical in her attention to appearances, but she's a vigilant guardian, devoted to their comfort. She makes sure they're kept well-fed and groomed, that they're outfitted for the weather or occasion, that they get to bed on time. Thomas refuses to let her fuss over him too much, but she's unabashedly sweet with Michael, in a way that was rarer when it came from Chris or their father. And he soaks it up eagerly, having no memory of their mother. Thomas barely remembers her himself. In an old videotape he's seen her on the floor with him, a toddler, the two of them peering curiously into the dog's ear. She laughs and marvels with him. He thinks he remembers that moment, but maybe he's just projecting onto the character in the video, who was him.

At night, Michael shakes Thomas, who's already awake, asking to climb into bed with him. Thomas doesn't answer, so Michael cocoons himself in a blanket and wanders across the hallway to Kay's bed, where he'll spend the rest of the night warm and safe, cuddled close to her. In the morning, she'll brush the curls from his cheek and tell him he's her ray of sunshine. Thomas cries bitterly and shivers though he isn't cold. Everything's wrong, and even after all this time, he never knew he could miss Chris so much.

* * *

Chris's train is running 15 minutes late, and despite efforts to be in a good mood, it's the final straw for Thomas. It's taken Chris a full month to make time to see them. While Michael and Kay wait beneath the station's awning, he shuffles around the platform, angry and uncomfortable. Finally, the train arrives and Chris appears, looking exhausted. He greets Kay politely before even acknowledging his brothers, but when Michael leaps into his arms, it's obvious how much he missed them, how relieved he is to see them. Thomas's anger melts away instantly. Chris turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Thomas."

He can't get any words out.

"Missed you," he says finally.

"I've got the whole weekend." Chris cups the back of Thomas's head. He looks sheepish. "We work six days a week, you know. Had to bank my seventh day for a while. And I meant to text you on the train, but my phone died."

Thomas can't be angry with Chris, knowing what he's sacrificed. That he's doing all this for their sake. Still, in his heart, it isn't enough. He leans into Chris's chest and closes his eyes. He doesn't care if Kay sees. Fuck her.

* * *

Chris has gotten much taller. His hair has gotten longer. Chris has always been elegant—even in their old photos, which Thomas keeps in his shoebox and still looks at from time to time, it's clear that Chris was a hauntingly beautiful child, and now he's gliding through puberty. Thomas has just turned twelve, and is a ways from hitting his growth spurt—he's short and still carries baby fat around his cheeks and middle. The only hints at his development are the increased sweat, appetite, and slight hair growth under his arms, none of which are particularly desirable. His voice still hasn't cracked.

Chris is a gracious guest and helps clear the dishes and tidy the kitchen. He fits right in, Thomas thinks. The three brothers retire to the couch after dinner, satisfied and comfortable. For once, Thomas's stomach doesn't hurt. Michael is giddy with Chris's presence, fawning over him and stroking his braid. Chris dotes on Michael, too.

"You're getting too big for me to carry," he teases him.

"I'm not yet. Thomas can still pick me up."

"He's very strong."

"Not as strong as you."

"Oh, please." Thomas curls his lip at them. "If Chris and I fought, you _know_ who'd win."

Michael bites his cheek. "Let's not fight..."

Thomas gathers himself and stands up on the couch. "Come on, Chris. Fight me."

Chris laughs nervously. "I'd rather not..."

"Come on, Chris!" It's because of Kay. A display of rowdiness is the last thing Chris wants, to make a favorable impression—but it's what Thomas wants, to shove it in her face that they'll do as they please.

Chris's voice is stern. "Thomas, sit down."

Thomas won't sit down. Chris thinks he can walk into _their_ place and tell him how to act? This is _his_ turf. He pounces on Chris, who tries to catch him and absorb the blow, but is forced to deflect him to avoid crushing Michael. Thomas tumbles sideways off the couch and onto the coffee table, landing on it full force and shattering it into a hundred pieces. Someone's mug spills all over the floor and the books. Chris and Michael gasp.

Thomas can't move, stunned and surrounded by glass. Part of him expects time to rewind any second.

Chris, who would normally spring into action, seems cowed and ashamed. He covers his mouth. "H-hang on, I'll... I'll get the, um..."

Kay's office door opens. She doesn't speak right away, just surveys the damage and takes a few steps toward them. "Anyone hurt? Thomas, are you okay?"

Thomas mutters that he's fine. His face burns with shame.

"Stay put," she says. "I'll bring the vacuum. Just nobody move."

Chris and Michael watch her clean up, mortified. Thomas feels his own frustration simmering, his mood plummeting by the second. He discards a few pieces of glass sticking to his clothes, crawls onto the couch, and curls into an angry, self-pitying ball. His stomach grumbles, upset in no time at all. Chris is apologizing, on his own behalf and Thomas's, and Kay is assuring him he did nothing wrong, she's not cross with either of them. Thomas wishes she would just admit what a piece of shit he is. He's disappointed everybody. His own turf—what a damn idiot.

"Thomas, will you come talk to me for a minute?"

Yeah, here it comes. He follows her into the office, sits astride the arm of a recliner and chews his lip. Whatever it is, he doesn't care. He doesn't care.

"I know you've been frazzled, kiddo. I want you to be able to relax... is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine."

She studies him. "You've really been looking forward to this, huh?"

"Look, it was an accident..." He grimaces as his insides cramp. She raises an eyebrow, making him curl his lip again. "It's nothing... tummyache."

Kay gives him a pitying look. "You took your lactase, right? I'm starting to think you get these from stress."

"My stomach's just irritable. Nothing's wrong."

She pauses for a minute. "Can I... hug you?"

This isn't what he was expecting. He nods, and she puts one gentle, tentative arm around him. He tenses, his heart suddenly racing. When she says his name to him, tears spring to his eyes. He feels his insides do a nasty flip and darts out of the room, making a beeline for the bathroom, where he empties his miserable stomach of dinner and coughs dejectedly.

Chris is the only one who knows what he needs. He forces his way into the bathroom and holds the long strands of Thomas's hair back from the toilet bowl, rubbing his back while he retches. Tears spill freely from Thomas's eyes, and he lets the others think it's involuntary watering. He missed Chris so much. He never wants him to leave.

* * *

Chris sleeps on the pullout couch, and both of his brothers wind up in the bed with him. He sleeps very soundly, as if it's the first good rest he's had in ages, and his steady breathing soothes Thomas and Michael, one curled on either side of him. Chris's hair smells like vanilla. His body isn't very warm, but it's familiar, and that's all that matters. Thomas usually sleeps fitfully, and Michael has told him that he kicks, but he's so relaxed next to both his brothers, he sleeps like a baby.

Chris is visibly relieved to see how well Thomas and Michael are being cared for. Michael proudly shows him their room, his good marks in summer school, and the small library he's already amassing on top of his desk. Kay is exacting with their budget, but she'll buy him any book he asks for.

Thomas hears Chris talking to her on Saturday afternoon, while he and Michael are busy with their summer reading. Michael, of course, is absorbed in his book, but Thomas really couldn't care less.

"I appreciate it so much, Kay. If I could be there for them..."

"God, and you're only fifteen..." There's a grave pause. "I've never seen a kid your age so grown-up."

"It's... just the way it has to be." Chris sounds embarrassed.

"I want you three to see each other as much as possible. I really do. "

"Honestly, I don't know how to repay you for this..."

"Please—you don't have to." Another pause. "Listen. If you ever need help... if there's anything I can do for you... I consider you, you know... one of them."

There's a long, long silence, and Thomas finally can't take it anymore and nearly charges into the room. Sitting at the kitchen table, Chris is humble and composed, his shoulder held maternally by Kay. They withdraw casually as Thomas passes behind Chris to open the refrigerator.

"You hungry?" Kay asks.

Thomas stuffs a few cold cuts into his mouth. "Nope."

"How's it going in there?" He leaves without answering. He doesn't know what he's feeling. Habitual nervousness is all he knows how to feel.

* * *

Saying goodbye feels like the end of the world. Chris holds them both and tells them he'll be back as soon as he can. Maybe next month. Probably the one after. Then at Christmas, he'll stay a whole week. They'll have a proper holiday together. Michael won't stop crying, but as always, he's compliant. He kisses Chris on the cheek and wipes his own tears away.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," Chris says, forcing a weak smile.

"There's nothing sweet about it," Thomas mutters.

Chris boards the train. As it pulls out of the station, Thomas feels his loneliness unfurling like a flag in the wind, like a road stretching out for miles and miles. He watches Kay scoop Michael up in her arms. Though Michael's small for his age, he'll be ten in a few months, and is nearly too big to be held this way.

"It hurts, huh?" Kay murmurs into Michael's ear. "It's really hard... Totally sucks."

Michael sobs, clinging to her neck. "I wish we could go with him."

"I know, sweetheart."

"He's working so hard..." He calms down a little. "He's really brave. To be on his own like that."

"He's a good kid. It's obvious how much he loves you."

"I just wish Christmas would be tomorrow."

They stop at the grocery on the way home and buy cocoa powder. Back at the apartment, in the lingering heat of early September, they sip hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows while playing Christmas songs, and Michael cries into his mug. Thomas is embarrassed at the charade, but he can't deny the ridiculousness of it all takes his mind off the gloom. He even feels up to washing the mugs while Kay sweeps up the kitchen.

"Thanks, Thomas," she says, and then pauses. "You know... you'll probably want some new clothes for school, right?"

"Sure... that'd be nice."

She tucks the broom and dustpan behind the fridge and pats him on the shoulder. "Gotta get you spruced up for the new year. Something to match that handsome face of yours."

Thomas has never been called handsome, and doesn't appreciate the flattery. But if Kay wants to buy his affection with praise, he'll take it. It'll have to do, to get him by until Chris's next visit. And maybe Kay's not so bad. She's only the unpleasant glue keeping their family together.

* * *

That night, for the first time in a long time, he lets Michael cling to him.

"Thomas..." Michael's still in a soggy, needy mood. "I love you, okay?"

"Love you, too." He used to hug Michael every day when they were in the group home. They were never apart, if they could help it. But something's changed. Things have gotten easier for them. Why does it seem like they've grown more distant? Why can't he be the older brother Michael needs?

"I don't ever want to be apart from you," Michael pleads.

"Well, you're not gonna be. I'm not going anywhere." He strokes Michael's hair. It's getting long in the back. He could use a trim.

"Are you angry with me?"

"Of course not."

"Are you angry at Kay?"

He sighs. "No."

"Then what's bothering you all the time?"

He wishes he knew. All he knows is that nothing's right. He told himself he wouldn't get comfortable here, but in spite of himself, there's a part of him that wants to—and can't.

"It's hormones," he tells Michael. "It'll happen to you, too."

"It didn't happen to Chris..."

Well, he's not like Chris. He's not perfect, driven, unshakable. He's messed up and disoriented. He feels sick and restless all the time. When his caseworker calls, he gets into character, amps up the charm—it was difficult at first, but the lie keeps swallowing him, and the more he does it, the more it starts to feel wrong that he can't be that person all the time.

He holds Michael tight. "Things are better now, aren't they? You don't wanna go back to the group home, do you?"

"No."

"Me neither. It sucked."

Michael snuggles into his arms. "I don't miss the food. Or the curfew."

"Or that ugly van that took us to school."

"It smelled so bad."

"Heh."

"Thomas..."

"What?"

"Are you crying?"

"No."

He knows Michael knows anyway. Can't hide it from him. But compliant as ever, Michael doesn't protest. He just presses his warm face into his brother's neck, kissing him between the clavicles. Thomas wipes his cheek against the pillow and holds on to Michael for dear life.

* * *

Kay pulls the covers off of Thomas. "Come on. You're not gonna be late on your first day."

He protests bitterly and curls into a tighter ball. "Put them back. I don't feel good."

"Yeah... I know. C'mon—up."

Thomas moans and stuffs his head underneath the pillow. Kay will have to physically remove him from his bed—he's not getting up for anything. But of course, Kay doesn't attempt to move him at all. She doesn't have to. Michael's standing in the doorway, already dressed and brushing his teeth. He approaches Thomas and pats him on the head.

"You can do it, Thomas! We've got to go together... please get up!"

He can't say no to Michael. But it doesn't change how rotten he feels. A bit more coaxing and he manages to get himself washed and dressed. He's slumping into the kitchen fifteen minutes late as Michael puts his dishes in the sink. Kay hands him a waffle. "Better eat this in the car."

"I don't want it."

"C'mon, Thomas, you gotta eat!" Michael's determined to carry the team here.

"I told you, I'm feeling lousy!"

" _Thomas!_ " Michael balls his fists and raises his voice to an alarming volume. Thomas bristles, but Kay consoles Michael.

"It's all right, babe. We can't make him. Let's head out, okay?"

"I really don't feel well," Thomas complains to Kay. "My stomach's killing me."

"I get it. First day's nerve-wracking. But you still gotta go."

"You wanna send a sick child to school? I'll tell our caseworker."

"Fine. But I think you'll be all right."

He makes it about halfway through the ride before vomiting all over the passenger seat of the car. Kay pulls onto the shoulder of the road and lets him wipe his face off with the single packet of moist towelettes found in the glove compartment, then sponges up the rest with loose-leaf paper. By the time they pull up to the school, Michael has five minutes to dash to class.

* * *

Kay tucks the covers in around Thomas. "I've got an important call in the next hour. You need anything, let me know soon, okay?"

He nods reluctantly. He won't say it, but his symptoms had mostly disappeared by the time they walked back in the door.

"I'll be fine."

"Kiddo..."

She runs her fingers through his bangs gently, thumbs his cheek a little. Her hand feels cool and nice.

"I'm sorry," he mutters.

"It's not easy. I know." She cups his shoulder beneath the blankets. "You rest up. I'll come in once I'm off the call and we'll figure out what you wanna eat for lunch. Sound good?"

Thomas doesn't answer. Not because he's ashamed to, but because he's enjoying the attention and doesn't want it to stop.

"All right," he says at last.

He messes around on his phone for an hour or so, nods off for a while, and wakes up around noon. Chris hasn't responded to any of his texts. He never does. Whatever, they were just jokes and memes. He wanders out of his room, but finds Kay still in her office with the door closed. He flops down on the couch, turns on the TV, then turns it off again. Kay emerges a few minutes later. She sits down next to him and pats his hand.

"How do you feel?"

"Better."

"Shame to miss your first day."

"I know."

"Can you email your teachers for the homework?"

"I guess."

"Think you'll be up to going tomorrow?"

"Mmf." He's disappointed in himself. Doesn't feel up to much of anything.

"You wanna talk?"

"About what."

"Troubles. Anxieties. Anything eating you."

"I'm stressed."

"What's stressing you?"

"I hate school." He curls up.

"You haven't even been."

"I know I'll hate it."

"Seventh grade's no picnic, huh."

"I miss being homeschooled. Can't I do that? You're here all day."

"I'm working. And you know, it's good for you to be with the other kids... mixing in with different types." He just groans, and she gives him a pitying look. "What is it you're dreading most?"

"Everything."

"'Everything...'"

"At our last school, I was smarter than all the other kids, and the teachers hated me for no reason. The classes were really dull. I knew all of the stuff already."

"Hmm."

"I was bored all the time, and then I'd get yelled at for not paying attention."

"Maybe the accelerated program at your new school will treat you better."

He scowls. "The kids made fun of me, too."

"For what?"

"My, um, my hobbies."

"They made fun of you for trading cards?"

"No, um... I had to do a presentation on the history of dolls and doll collecting."

"An assigned topic? Or you chose it?"

"I chose it. It was... stupid."

"I didn't know you were interested in dolls."

"I'm not, okay? I just... used to play with them when I was little."

"What kinds?"

"Just vinyl ones. The kind with ball-joints. Not the fashion kind so much... I had some nice ones, modeled after antiques. But I wasn't interested in the collectors' value. I just liked the ones that looked pretty." He pauses. "But that was a million years ago, okay? I was a little kid. I didn't know any better."

"I really don't see what the problem is."

"Don't act dumb. Boys don't play with dolls."

"Are you kidding? Boys _love_ dolls... they just call them action figures. It's the same thing."

Thomas sighs in exasperation. "What is that supposed to mean? How can you not understand this?"

"Sorry..." She brushes the hair out of his eyes. "Look, kiddo. One way or another, you're gonna have to go to school. You'll make some new friends, and before you know it, things will start to feel normal."

"I don't want any friends." He turns toward her, hugging his knees. "They suck."

"What _do_ you want?"

"To stay home forever."

She gives his leg a reassuring pat. "You're tenacious, aren't you?"

If Thomas's father could see him right now, he'd tell him to stop whining. Kay is far too indulgent, he thinks. He could probably manipulate her with a little effort. But he feels too helpless to make the effort. All he wants is attention—to be spoiled and have his wounded ego stroked. Cautiously, he leans into Kay. She wraps an arm around him and pets him lightly with her other hand.

"You'll be okay, Thomas."

"Mmmm."

* * *

When their caseworker visits, he's on his best behavior, with his artificial charm turned up to eleven.

"I'm just so glad to be here with Michael in a loving home," he sighs for her theatrically. "Kay is so kind to us... we're much happier in a foster family than in the group home. Of course, we owe it all to you..."

"You're on your fourth week of school, right? How are you doing?"

"School's great! I love it. My classmates have been very welcoming, and I'm in one of the after-school duelist leagues." He gushes about the friends he's made through dueling—not that any of them are his real friends, they're all talentless morons. He wouldn't be caught dead with their crowd at a local tournament. He bluffs about his schoolwork, too. Says he's excited about the novel they're reading in English class. Who cares?

His caseworker eats it up, but then she throws him a curveball. "Kay told me over the phone that you've been having some health problems. She said you've been less withdrawn, but she thinks you're under stress."

He smiles as brightly but modestly as he can. "I'm lactose intolerant. I found out a couple months ago."

"You've changed your diet, right? And you take lactase supplements?"

"Yes..."

"But you missed three days of school in three weeks... You think maybe you should see a doctor?"

His eye twitches a little. "I already saw one."

"It's okay to be stressed. Transitioning can be tough. Would you like me to recommend a therapist? We can provide referrals, and sometimes talking to a third party can..."

" _No._ " It comes out more forcefully than he wanted it to. "Sorry, but I definitely don't need therapy."

"It's up to you."

He's breathing faster, suddenly. "I don't like missing school... I'm not doing it on purpose, if that's what you're suggesting."

His caseworker raises an eyebrow.

"And I'm not angry, either, if you're thinking that... all that stuff I said before I went to the treatment center, that's all behind me. I'm happy now. I... I just want to live my life. I've been real lucky, right?"

"You're doing well... don't get the wrong idea. I'm just trying to cover our bases."

"Well, I'm fine! There's nothing to cover. I've made a clean start here." His smile is breaking. "So please, haha, let's not even joke about it..."

"I'm not joking. But I get the sense you're pretty resistant. So we can drop it." She writes something down on her notepad.

"What are you writing there?"

"Just my notes."

He swallows his rage. "What kind of notes are you taking?"

"To be honest, Thomas, I think you're not being very forthright with me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, for starters, you earned a suspension."

He can feel the color draining from his face.

"You hid it from Kay, I've come to understand. But your school records are part of our case files. A three-day suspension for a physical altercation... between that and your illness, do you realize you've missed a quarter of the school year so far? This is concerning."

"So you knew the whole time that I..."

"It isn't to make you feel ashamed. My job is to be your advocate—I need you to work with me, not against me. You understand that, right?"

He doesn't know what to say. A visceral horror is creeping over him.

"I've already filled Kay in during our conference," she says. "The outcome of it is between you and her. But this isn't a pattern you want to fall into, Thomas."

He wants to murder her. Should he scream? Cry for pity? Just smile and play along? His head is swimming.

"Screw you," he says. "You fucking bitch."

He can tell she's thrown, but she stays silent. He hates that—when people in power exercise the privilege of total restraint. He wants to get a rise out of her.

"You think you know my life? You're just some cunt who lives off of kids' misery. I hope you get hit by a truck and bleed to death."

Stone-faced, she scribbles something in her notes.

"Yeah, write _that_ down. And tell your therapy psychos they can bite me, too. They try to stick me in the treatment center again, I'll fucking stab them."

"I see," she says.

* * *

While Michael takes his turn with their caseworker, Thomas stalks into the kitchen and sits down at the table. There's a cup of tea waiting for him. Some eggs are boiling on the stove. Kay comes in and takes them off the burner. She doesn't speak to him. He nurses his tea in silence. He can hear her peeling the eggshells. Michael is laughing in the other room. Somewhere, there's Chris. He's working on a Sunday, working odd and extra shifts for a month, so that he can take a long weekend to visit them.

Kay is behind his chair. Bending over him, she cups his shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of his head, in the part of his hair. He feels his throat close up.

"Want an egg?"

A half-sob escapes him. "No."

"I'm not angry, Thomas."

"Yes you are."

"I'm not."

"Shut up. Liar."

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't call me that!"

"You think you're the first kid that's ever lied to me?"

"Keep Michael and send me back to the group home. I don't care."

"I'm not gonna do that."

"You should."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm a bad kid."

She pauses. "Who told you you were a bad kid?"

No one ever had to go right out and say it. It was just obvious. No one but a bad kid would lie and cause so much trouble. No one but a bad kid needs to be shunted around, tracked, monitored, psychoanalyzed. When he was a good kid, he was happy and free. Now he only knows the consequences of his actions. He can't stop hurting other people, he can't stop hurting himself. He can't stop hurting.

Kay rubs his shoulder. "Who told you?"

"I just am." His throat cracks faintly.

"Seems to me that's not the whole story," she says, softening her voice. "Some pretty unfair shit happened to you. If I were you, I'd be angry. And really confused."

He can't look at her. He wishes he could, but he just can't.

* * *

He was always a bad kid, maybe. A bad kid waiting to happen. He was the black sheep of the family. Chris was mature beyond his years, poised and serene, like a second parent to them, even though he had only three years' seniority. He was their father's right hand, always at his side. Michael was the baby, cheerful and easygoing, everyone's favorite. Always in their father's arms. And Thomas was loud, fretful, the source of discord—needing constant reassurance, vindictive when ignored, unable to sit quietly or find pleasure in dignified pastimes. Ferociously clever, but never an intellectual. Put his IQ to work sneaking, manipulating, cajoling, disobeying. Always to blame, without a doubt. Always desperate to be the best, furious when he couldn't be.

It only makes sense that he turned out this way. His emotions running unchecked, spoiling everything. His natural temperament devouring him.

He hears Michael poke his head into the bedroom. Michael watches Thomas for what seems like a long time. Then he creeps over to the bed and hoists himself onto the mattress. He wraps his arms around Thomas, who's curled on his side.

"Chris texted. He's coming in two weeks," he says.

Thomas shifts uncomfortably. "I don't want him to see me like this."

"Did you really tell Kay you wanted to be sent back?"

He turns his head. "She told you that?"

"No... I heard her telling Ms. Jeon."

"I didn't mean it." He covers his head with his arms. "I don't want to leave you."

"If you go, I'll go with you. Don't leave without me."

"I told you, I don't want to go!"

"Thomas..." Michael's voice sounds teary. Thomas can't look.

"I won't. I promise." Though it wouldn't be up to him, if Kay decided he were too much of a handful.

"Kay really likes you." Michael can tell what he's thinking. "She likes both of us. I love her, too... I want to stay here..."

"Then we'll stay here. Don't cry, okay? Stop it..."

Michael wipes his face. Thomas feels awful. Making his baby brother cry—what's he going to fuck up next?

"Will you come into the other room with us?"

"No. I wanna be alone for a while."

Michael leaves the door open a crack. With the light off in his room, Thomas can watch Michael hop onto the sofa and crawl into Kay's lap. They cuddle and whisper to each other, and Michael's tears turn into sweet laughter as she tousles his curls. He's glowing from the flattery. Not long ago, Thomas would have pitied Michael for falling prey to a stranger's fickle overtures. Now he just pities himself. He feels cold, empty, and rotten to the core.

* * *

Thomas texts Chris a couple of times on an average day. He'll send links to funny videos, or his own snapshots. His phone doubles as Michael's, but it's easy to tell their pics apart because Michael tends to get too creative with the filters. Michael also uses stickers, and favors first-person shots over selfies—he's very picky about portraits.

"Don't make that face, Thomas."

"I'm not making a face."

"You look like a serial killer!"

"I'm being normal!"

They've been out on a day trip to the countryside, picking raspberries—or in Thomas's case, eating the raspberries and taking an irresistible nap in the sun of autumn's last warm afternoon. Michael and Kay gave a wide berth to his whims, as if being cautious with him, but he wasn't in a bad mood. The grass and dirt smelled sweet, and he felt cozy inside his new down jacket.

Now there's a sizable stack of berry cartons on the kitchen floor, and Michael has appointed himself the photographer.

"You hardly helped pick them—you could at least pose nicely!"

Thomas puts a carton in his lap and arches one leg over the rest. He cocks his shoulders and props his chin on one fist. "Is this nice?"

"Thomas—!" Michael's laughing, though. "What kind of pose is that?"

"It's _fanservice_."

Chris is usually slow to text back, but this time they get a reply right away. _Looks good. They should put Thomas on an advert. Weather's getting cold up here... looking forward to seeing you next weekend._

 _Leave room in ur bag so u can take some of the fruit,_ Thomas texts him, but there's no reply after that.

Michael flops into Thomas's lap on all fours, helps himself to a generous handful of berries, and stuffs them into his mouth. "We could make Chris a pie," he says around the mouthful, "or a jam, or a cobbler... or tarts!" He reaches for more.

"Hey, don't spoil your dinner."

"You've been eating them all day," Michael whines.

"I'm bigger than you. I have to eat more to maintain my strength."

"No fair!"

Thomas drives the point home by pretending to bite him in the neck. Michael grabs Thomas by one of his earlocks, Thomas pulls Michael's cowlick, Michael yanks the laces of his sweater, and soon they're wrestling each other, rolling on the floor and laughing wildly. Thomas easily gains the upper hand and pins Michael's arms and legs, but holding him is trickier—even with Thomas's weight on him, Michael is quick and nimble. Still, he can only thrash around so much while giggling uncontrollably.

"You're so mean," he gasps, blinking back tears.

"If I were mean, I'd tickle you..."

" _Don't!_ " With only the suggestion, Thomas makes him scream and beg for mercy. They struggle some more until one of them kicks over the tower of cartons, scattering berries across the kitchen floor, which only adds to their excitement. Thomas rolls Michael onto his stomach and wipes the floor with his face until both are smeared with red juice and stray drupelets. Michael crushes berries against the sleeve of Thomas's yellow cotton sweater, laughing when Thomas yelps and recoils.

" _No_ messing with my clothes! That's out of bounds!"

"You got juice up my _nose..._!"

Thomas is about to ignore his own rule and stuff berries down the back of Michael's shirt when Kay sticks her head into the kitchen, looking stern. She's in the middle of a business call. They both freeze in the center of their mess, but she just raises a wry eyebrow before ducking out again. They turn to each other, sheepish.

"We'd better clean up," Michael says. "After I catch my breath..."

Worn out, they collapse on their backs in a dizzy euphoria. It feels good, the way it used to when they play-fought in their old house. In the group home, they weren't allowed to scuffle, even for fun, and with Thomas's recent moodiness, Michael has shied away from clashes out of a deference that makes Thomas feel fragile. But there's something healthy about a brotherly squabble. He rolls onto his side and holds Michael's skull against his own.

"You'll never, ever beat me," he growls into Michael's ear. Michael just grins and reaches for Thomas's phone. He snaps a picture of the two of them together and sends it to Chris. _Not blood,_ he appends helpfully to the photo.

* * *

The next morning, another message comes back.

_It looks like the lab is going to need me next weekend. Things don't always proceed at an even pace... when they need all hands on deck, they need everybody. I'm sorry about this. I don't know when I'll be able to come, but I promise I'll make it up to both of you._

Thomas reads the text at the kitchen table, stupefied, cereal halfway to his mouth.

Michael tries to put on a brave face. Kay says she'll call in during the day and see what they can find out. Michael sighs.

"It's all right. He's doing what he has to. We'll just have to wait for him..."

"Well, I'm not going to school," Thomas says, pushing his chair back from the table. "This is bullshit."

Kay barely reacts to his announcement. "It's disappointing," she says. "Rough break."

"I mean it. I'm not going. This is _fucked._ "

"Thomas, I'm sorry, but you still have to go."

"Well, I won't."

She puts a hand on the back of his chair, but he swats it away violently. She doesn't say anything more, letting him sulk for the next twenty minutes while Michael finishes his breakfast and the two of them commiserate.

"We could go downtown instead. Or would you like to have a friend over?"

"I don't know... I don't really want to do anything... I know I shouldn't mope, but..."

"It's okay, babe. You've had a real letdown."

It's so easy for them to communicate. Thomas deepens his scowl and laser-focuses his glare on an untouched plate of toast.

Michael thinks aloud. "If it's okay with you... and if Thomas wants to... maybe we could make the jam, and send it to Chris. That way he could still enjoy it."

"That's a good idea. You up for it, Thomas?"

Thomas ignores her. The dumb shit, with her placid tone and fake, accommodating attitude. If she didn't live so far away, they'd see their brother more than once in a blue moon. But she doesn't care, does she? Nothing ruffles _her_ feathers.

The minutes tick by, and Kay doesn't say anything more to him. She clears his dishes, including the uneaten toast, while Michael clings to his arm and leans against his shoulder. He knows he should say something to comfort Michael, but he's burning with a cold rage.

"It's time," Kay says. "I'll drive you, all right?" Michael zips up his backpack obediently and hurries to her side. Thomas doesn't budge. "Come on," she says. "Let's not be late."

"I'll wait for the bus," he says.

"I'd rather you come with us in the car."

Because she doesn't trust him now. Of course.

"Screw you."

"Thomas."

"Don't look at me that way. You're not my mom. I fucking hate you."

"Let's go, kiddo."

He stands up, kicks over his chair, and storms out of the kitchen. He goes into the bedroom and slams the door shut. It doesn't have a lock. Of course.

"I know you're upset about Chris," she says from the other side of the door. "But I didn't do this to you, and neither did Michael. Don't punish us."

"Yeah, you basically did. You basically did do this to both of us."

"We can talk about it later. You need to go to school now."

"Or we can talk about it never, because I don't care! But I'm not leaving this room!"

"Come on," she says. "It's late."

He bites his tongue to keep the words from spilling out. He's making himself look like even more of a fool, and he knows it.

* * *

The day goes by in a disgruntled haze. His algebra homework is nowhere to be found, and he gets his third incomplete mark for the month, earning him a note home. His English teacher insinuates that his latest essay included a few subtly rephrased passages from SparkNotes, and asks him if he actually read the book. She doesn't give him any points for honesty, either.

While changing for P.E., he takes an elbow from two boys horsing around and bashes his lip against the corner of a locker. Minutes later, he manages to trip and fall hard on the gym floor, leaving a bright red burn on one knee. He stays down for about twenty seconds before his P.E. teacher helps him up, telling him to shake it off. He doesn't want to shake it off. He wants to lie there and hurt until the bell rings.

The cafeteria lunch is pizza sticks—they're smothered in cheese, and he forgot his lactase pills at home. No choice but to bite the bullet, since a styrofoam dish of wilted lettuce and cherry tomatoes won't fill him up. His stupid friends—and they're not even friends, he hasn't acted friendly toward them in weeks—won't stop snorting and laughing. He can't focus on the homework he's doing last-minute for his next class.

He's smarter than any of these morons, he tells himself as he flips his binder open to a half-finished worksheet and gives his French teacher an indifferent shrug. He's got nothing to prove to any of them. Bunch of tools, think they're so clever for marching in line. They're all going to be let down one day, when it turns out there's no salvation in the approval of authority. _He's_ never going to make that mistake again. _He's_ not going to be disappointed.

* * *

Curled in his seat at the back of the bus, Thomas squeezes his eyes shut against the whirling foliage that's amplifying his nausea. He massages his forehead and cranks up the volume on his headphones. Michael is next to him, as ever, keeping watch and throwing sympathetic looks as Thomas fidgets.

"You could have asked Kay to bring you a lunch during your advisory period," Michael says gently.

Thomas resents the fact that Michael knows his class schedule as well as he does. "I've been uncomfortable all afternoon," he snaps. "Don't tell me what I should have done."

"Sorry."

They walk the three blocks from the bus stop in silence. Thomas checks his phone for the thirtieth time. Still no response from Chris to the passive-aggressive tirade he sent him earlier in the morning. He's starting to wish he could start this day over from the beginning—except you couldn't pay him all the money in the world to live through it again.

Back in the apartment, he kicks his shoes into the corner and collapses face-first on the couch. Michael puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Thomas... what can I do?"

"Get me my medicine."

It won't work after the fact, and they both know it. But Michael returns dutifully with the bottle, and Thomas swallows one tablet as Kay emerges from her office. Michael greets her and scoots over to her side to be petted.

"Hey, little lamb... how was your geography test?"

"I got an A. I only missed one of the capitals! And I got a new book from the library..." Michael is the darling of all his teachers—performs well on exams, reads voraciously above grade level, always organized, bright personality and reserved manners. His classmates love him, too. Kay can enumerate his academic and personal accomplishments with ease. She usually congratulates Thomas on things like starting his homework without making a fuss, or remembering to separate his laundry.

Still, one of Michael's many virtues is that he never talks about himself for too long. He's already filling Kay in on Thomas's misfortunes, hovering over his brother anxiously. Thomas doesn't respond, his cheek pressed into the cushion and his eyes hidden beneath his overgrown bangs. He won't ask to be doted on, no matter how shrewdly he's keeping score. Michael tries to clasp his hand, and he jerks it away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Kay lift Michael's bangs with a palm on the forehead. "Thanks, Michael. I'll talk to him... would you mind giving us a few minutes? You can take your snack into the bedroom..."

Michael leaves them in privacy after casting one last worried look at Thomas, who still won't move. Kay seats herself on the carpet in front of him, at eye level.

"Sounds like you've had a day," she says.

Thomas doesn't answer. Seconds pass, then minutes. His phone buzzes. It's the text from Chris, finally. _I'm sorry you feel that way. There isn't anything I can do._ He lets the phone drop from his hands. It slides off the couch and onto the floor. He doesn't pick it up.

"You wanna talk about it?"

He groans. "I'm tired."

"Still angry with me?"

"No."

"It's okay if you are."

"I'm not mad." It's the truth. The energy for lashing out has dissipated. He's exhausted from all his restless seething, fidgeting, self-pitying.

She rubs his back. "You've taken some hard hits like a real champ."

"Hmph."

"What happened at school?"

"Nothing happened. It was a normal, shitty day." He buries his face in the couch and grumbles.

"Classes sucked, huh?"

"I forgot my math homework. They're gonna send a note home."

"You forgot it, or you didn't do it?"

"I forgot it."

"You worked pretty hard on those problems from last night."

"Didn't make any difference."

"Hey, small steps."

"Look, I'm not stupid, okay?"

Kay holds the back of his head. "I know you're very smart, Thomas."

He can't tell if she's humoring him. "Don't make fun of me. I'm sorry I'm not some—some scientist, or a damn engineer or something. But I'm not an idiot."

"I know. I'm being serious. You're a bright kid... things have always come naturally to you, haven't they?"

He scowls. "I guess so."

"It's normal for bright kids to struggle. You're used to everything just clicking, and then one day when it doesn't, you think there's something wrong with you. But it's just a challenge. Same as for anybody. You fight, you persevere, you go on."

"Michael isn't struggling."

"Michael works very diligently. He focuses, he keeps a good attitude."

"That's just how he is."

"But do you think it's effortless?"

He rolls onto his side. "Probably. I dunno. Chris has never struggled, either."

She turns and pauses. "Really?"

"What, you know something I don't?"

"Well, Chris is fifteen years old... He can't even sign his own release forms, and he's working full-time in research, away from his family. When he turns eighteen, he'll have two dependents and a pile of money dumped in his lap." She laughs, a little nervously. "You think he's never had doubts?"

"He just seems cool with it all."

"He is remarkably composed, I'll give him that."

Thomas thinks for a moment. "You think Chris is secretly freaking out?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Heh. He'd never let on if he was."

"You're pretty hard to read, too, sometimes." She rubs his shoulder. "But here we are."

 _Here we are._ Something clicks into place inside him. What he thought was her apathy toward him—was it patience all along? That dumb, placid expression she's always wearing... He reaches out and takes her hand, shuts his eyes while she strokes his hair. It feels nice. They don't say anything. Some minutes pass, and he lets his hand fall.

"You need anything?"

"I'm just really tired."

"Feeling a nap?"

"Yeah..."

She brings him a fleece blanket, tucks it in around him, and settles on the other side of the couch with a book. Thomas snuggles until he's comfy, but then decides to flip himself around so he can lay his head in her lap. After some nervous tossing and turning, he manages to relax while she pets him a little, and soon drops off into a surprisingly pleasant sleep.

* * *

October draws to a close. As the chill moves in and the days grow shorter, summer already seems like a distant memory. The air outside is rich with the scent of smoke and decay. Some nights, after Michael falls asleep, Thomas will creep into Kay's office and nestle in the cheap leather recliner next to her desk. They'll talk until he's drowsy and content, warm and cozy beneath the comforter. He sleeps well when retired to his own bed. The extra hour or two he stays up isn't much lost compared to the time he used to spend lying awake.

He complains to her, or jokes sometimes, but often he reminisces about life with their father. What it was like to be wealthy, homeschooled, and surrounded by eminent scientists. It all seems so different in hindsight, like a beautiful dream he was rudely awakened from, to discover that life is governed by the institutions of state, school, society, economy. That the world hates exceptions.

He's exceptional. He's still sure of this, when he isn't choking on self-loathing.

In the group home, he hated the one-size-fits-all approach to every aspect of life. It smacked of indifference, and besides that, it was useless—he was struck by the same thought the first time he watched his classmates line up for a school fire drill. Would anyone be so calm in a real emergency? What good is the charade of order when your life is on fire?

He alludes once to his time in the treatment center, but he doesn't want to talk about that. Maybe he's blocked it out, or it was the meds they put him on—either way, there are only a few solid details. A pair of shoes on the stairs, not seeming like his own. Scuffed linoleum, opaque glass tiles. The way his jaw ached from pulling into a smile. It doesn't matter anyway. He'll never go back.

Except he does, the next time they talk—he goes right back to the details, and soon there are more. The friendly staffer who gave him his meds every day at the designated hours. A single flip-flop abandoned on the floor of the empty cafeteria. A loaf of bread squashed in a duffel bag. The boy in the next room was always stealing food, though there was plenty to eat—he didn't seem to mind that the others mocked him for it. There was cookie butter at breakfast, the second week. Odd for him to have a fond memory, but it was the first time Thomas had tasted the stuff. Even though he preferred the chocolate spread they'd had at home, the butter was a decent substitute on an English muffin. And it didn't make him sick.

There was screaming and fighting outside, almost every night. An unbroken voice making dire, profound promises to kill the owners of the other voices. It wasn't always the same one. Thomas could never figure out who it was. Night after night awake in bed, the open eye of the maddening moon winked at him in slow motion through the window. When it was darkest, the eye shone brightest, and he had to turn his head away. He didn't like to close his eyes. He could never fall asleep, but he'd have fitful waking dreams of home. The jagged silhouette of the trees on the other side of the lot kept watch over him as the sun rose. He watched over them, too. He still knows their shape by heart. They're grooves on the blade of a key unique to him.

He'd see Michael at school. Thomas's lunch period coincided with Michael's recess, so he'd duck out of the cafeteria and they'd meet on the playground. The supervisors made a fuss over his presence at first, but Thomas put on his most charming, groveling manners, and they got accustomed to his visits. He and Michael rarely did anything. They'd talk about their cards, or just sit together in silence. They never fought or argued at all.

Most of the boys in the treatment center were older than Thomas. Many had been there months or years. But somehow, the right person noticed that he didn't belong there. Maybe it was that kind staffer he plied every day with ingratiatory babble, or all the delicate legwork he did with his second therapist. Or maybe it was someone he never met at all—because after four weeks in the center, his old caseworker was gone, Ms. Jeon was in her place, his belongings were in a black trash bag and he was on his way back to the group home. No one gave him another pill after that.

Kay hasn't touched her computer for a while. She's listening intently.

"I know it was harder on Michael than it was on me," he says. "I was fine, you know. But I'm still pretty sure I'd rather die than do it again."

She nods.

"Michael wouldn't stop clinging to me for about a week after I got back," he says. "All that time, he said he never cried, but you know how he is. And I could tell." Thomas chews on the collar of his pajamas.

"How did you feel?"

He sighs. "It was my fault the whole thing happened in the first place. Michael just didn't want me to feel worse. That's him... putting everybody else first."

"Not just Michael..." She leans back in her chair. "The way you've looked after him is really admirable."

He stares at the floor.

"None of this was your fault," she says. "It couldn't be—it's all way, way bigger than you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah... I know. I get it."

"Do you feel guilty?"

He can't answer.

"Michael looks up to you," she says. "Maybe more than you know."

"No, I know..."

"He loves you so much. He told me out of all three brothers, you're the bravest."

Thomas blinks back tears.

"Didn't know that," he says.

Kay leans forward to wipe his cheek. "Aw, baby... I didn't mean to make you cry."

Suddenly, he's sobbing. Kay kneels next to his chair and wraps him in a hug. He pitches forward into her arms, locks onto her neck and trembles. Every tensed muscle in his body feels about to give.

"I'm not brave at all," he says. The words aren't more than a whimper.

"You are so brave." She holds him tight. "My brave, beloved boy."

He cries and cries in her arms. The sustained outburst is like a full-body involuntary reflex. He didn't know he could have such a powerful physical reaction. But he doesn't care—it feels so good, letting out the depleted air he's been storing up in his lungs. Between the tears and the way she's holding him securely, shouldering his weight on one side, he feels like a little kid again. He slides off the chair and into her lap, where she makes him comfortable and rubs his back until his sobs fade to small hiccups.

Kay talks to him some more, saying something about him and Michael, but after a good cry he's drained and light-headed and doesn't pay attention. He leans against her shoulder, resting his head on her neck. They're quiet for a while, the only sounds a distant siren and Thomas's occasional fluttering sigh.

"I'm okay," he says softly, embarrassed. He gets a few affectionate pats. His head begins to clear. His breathing calms. He feels peaceful, even serene. A car passes in the street with a loud stereo, blasting funk. He nods to the distant beat and plays ghost chords on Kay's arm, a coy smile on his lips. She twines her fingers in the longer of his two earlocks and presses her nose to his forehead.

"You ever considered a more symmetrical hairstyle?"

"What... you want me to cut it for picture day? This is how I like it."

She grins at him. "The first time I got a good look at you, I thought maybe you'd had an accident."

He snorts. "An accident?!"

"Younger sibling with scissors, something like that. It happens."

"Wow, you're old. Everyone has hair like this."

"Hey, I get it now. It's you." She sniffs the top of his head. "But when was the last time you washed it?"

"I already took a shower this week."

"This _week?_ You gotta take one more often than that."

"Michael showers as often as I do... why are you always on my case?"

"Because Michael's ten. When you're grown up, you're supposed to shower every day. Every other day, at least."

He fixes her with a deadpan look. " _No one_ does that."

"Ask Chris."

"I will."

"For real."

"Yeah. For real for real." He bats her jaw away with an open palm. "Now let go of me already..." He scrambles out of her lap and back onto the recliner, dives under the comforter and curls into a ball. Kay pats him through the blanket and goes back to work.

* * *

_Are you ever worried about the future?_

_I don't know how to answer that question. I'm not worried about my position at Faker Labs, if that's what you're asking. Career tracking lets me work full-time. Trade-off is I'm not on payroll during the summer, but they give me a stipend under the table. You and Michael have nothing to worry about._

_Ok but like... do you ever just miss dad?_

_Of course I miss him. Every single day I think about him._

_Me too_

_Why are you asking?_

_How can you just. idk. keep doing what youre doing, like nothing's changed._

_It's what he would have wanted me to do. Dad never let anything set him back._

_And you never have a moment where you think to yrself, wow i really suck? fuck all this shit, i hate it?_

_I don't suck. Are you mad at me? What are you trying to say?_

_I miss you. dont you want to start over?_

_No, I don't. I'm not going to throw away everything Dad worked for and believed in. What does that even mean? There's no way to "start over."_

_Idk, i just never pictured things would be the way they are now._

_No one did. But we have to go forward. There's no choice... You're old enough to understand that._

_Did dad dying not fuck you up even a little bit_

_Thomas, he isn't dead._

_He kind of is though_

_You don't have any idea what you're talking about._

_Fine whatever_

_Don't "whatever" me. You sound like you've given up on your family._

_Hahaha nice. after you fucking ditched us, and wont even come visit us. real nice. suck a dick chris_

_I'm sorry you can't seem to grasp the circumstances. Michael understands, you should try talking to him._

_Kiss my ass_

_I'm not responding to any more texts until you clean up your attitude._

_Thanks, "dad." oh wait, you'll never be him no matter how hard you try!!! bc dad actually cared about us!!! lmfao!!!!!_

* * *

Thomas knows Michael knows about his spat with Chris, because Michael uses his phone to text. Michael doesn't say anything, though. A week passes, and Thomas doesn't apologize.

_Hey chris. i've been thinking lately. maybe kay should just adopt us. you're happy where you are, right? working on your big science project. and we're happy living a normal life here. plus you wouldn't exactly be the best parent... kay was saying the same thing... you've never managed money, you don't have your own place or a car or anything. you barely even have time for yourself—you wouldn't be able to look after us._

He takes the bait. _Kay said that?_

_Yeah and tbh she knows what she's talking about. im gonna tell our caseworker about it tonight._

_Whatever you feel is right._

"Whatever you feel is right?" Thomas bites his lip and flings his phone across the bed. That asshole. Family loyalty, all right. Michael asks him what's wrong. He just slams their door, parks himself on the living room couch, and turns up the TV so loud that Kay yells at him from down the hall.

He seethes all through dinner. Their caseworker is supposed to call at 7:00, but predictably, the call is late. In a fit of anxiety, he texts Chris one more time.

_When was the last time you ever did anything for us? you never ask us how we are. you never text us when we're sick or upset. you didn't even call on michael's birthday. he was so disappointed, i had to lie to him and say you left a voice mail that i deleted by accident. you never tell us what's going on in your life. i used to want you around more than anything. now i don't think you even care._

It's Chris's last chance to make reparations, but there's only radio silence. Their caseworker calls, and Thomas makes it through the conversation without a flaw in his rhythm. She doesn't mention his outburst from their last face-to-face. Maybe all is forgiven. Actions speak louder than words, and he's been getting along in school lately—no disciplinary violations, not even a detention. He brags (trying to sound as humble and surprised as possible) about getting the top score in his class on their science unit exam. Seeing his ID number at the head of the list, he remembered what he was made of. That he was his father's son, too. Fuck everyone.

He cuddles with Kay while Michael takes his turn on the phone. He tells her a dumb joke, makes her laugh, then tries to wheedle a raise in his allowance for a game that's coming out next month. He hasn't made much progress by the time Michael comes out of the bedroom and hands the phone back to Kay. While she wraps up the call, the boys recline on the couch. It's immediately obvious that something's bothering Michael. He's too quiet, and he won't look at Thomas.

"What's your problem?"

Michael sighs. "Don't be so rude."

Thomas acts offended. " _I'm_ rude?"

"Sometimes you act so spoiled."

"Tch. Is that all?" He pulls on Michael's hair, but freezes when he sees tears on his cheek. "Hey! What's wrong with you?"

"I know you're fighting with Chris right now, but you didn't have to bring our caseworker into it!" He sniffles. "Maybe you don't want to see him again, but I do! We're still a family!"

"What are you talking about? I didn't say anything about Chris to Ms. Jeon."

"Then why'd you—" He hiccups and points to Thomas's phone. "You said you were going to tell her. About wanting Kay to adopt us."

"Oh, for crying out loud... quit reading my texts!"

"How was I supposed to know you didn't mean it? You've done worse!" A look of horror washes over his face. "I spent the whole time begging her not to think badly of Chris, and you never said anything... Now she's going to think there's really something wrong with him. It's all my fault."

Thomas crosses his arms. "Yep. It pretty much is all your fault."

Michael howls in despair. "I didn't mean to do it!"

"Maybe you should keep your mouth shut about things that don't concern you!"

"That's not fair, Thomas!" He's sobbing now. "I just want us to stop fighting! Why can't we get along?"

Seeing Michael cry stabs at Thomas, but he's not going to apologize and let Chris off the hook just for his little brother's sake. He's been bowing and scraping to everyone around him for too long—now it's Chris's turn to grovel. No matter what he has to do to get it out of him.

"Chris is being a piece of shit. You know he never did call you on your birthday? I made that up. He deserves to stew for the way he treats us."

Michael is trying to compose himself. "You wouldn't say that if he were here right now. I know you miss him. You're the one that started calling it—" Fresh tears spill from his eyes. "—Chris-mas."

Kay reenters the room, call ended, phone in her hand. She goes straight over to soothe Michael. "Poor baby... Will you tell me what's going on?"

Michael just looks plaintively at Thomas. He leans over and tries to cling to him, but Thomas rips out of his grasp and retreats to the bedroom. He opens their window and screams out of it, as loud as he can, the most animal sound he can make. Then he shuts the window. It's freezing.

* * *

Kay takes Michael's side, of course. Even though the misunderstanding was entirely Michael's fault.

"You know he reads your texts on that phone."

"If he had his own phone, maybe he wouldn't have gotten mixed up in it."

"He'll get one next year."

"Half his classmates have had a phone since they were six."

"That's fine, but in this house, a kid doesn't need a phone until he's in middle school."

" _God,_ you're old."

"This is about you, not Michael."

"It is completely, one hundred percent about Michael."

"You really upset him. I can't force you to apologize, but you need to understand that the things you say have an impact on others. So does the way you say them."

"Like I haven't heard that before."

"You were angry at your brother, so you lied to him in a way that hurt everyone else. Did that work out well for you?"

He stares in the other direction. "I don't care."

"You wanna talk about something?"

"No."

He ignores them both for the rest of the night. Chris still won't text him back. Outside, the moon stares from a cold and cloudless sky.

* * *

The last week of November slips away, and the stalemate shows no signs of breaking. Chris hasn't replied in two weeks. Thomas guards his phone jealously from Michael, who uses Kay's phone instead to text Chris, though there hasn't been a lot of conversation on that channel, either. Maybe Chris believed what Thomas said about Kay's lack of faith in him, and doesn't want to say much that she's likely to read. Or maybe he's just busy. As usual.

Michael spends almost every other night in Kay's bed now, so Thomas won't dare to venture into her room for late-night chats. The boys share their own space in uneasy silence, leaving as much distance between each other as possible. They start to stake out their own territory in the rest of the apartment, too. Thomas occupies the couch, hogging the TV and playing games beneath a tangled heap of blankets, while Michael reads his books at the kitchen table. There's friction over the snack food when Thomas starts hoarding the things Michael wants.

"You can't keep the pickles out here! They're supposed to be refrigerated."

"They'll be fine."

"Look—you've already eaten half the crackers! They're not just for you, you know."

"And what is it you like to do? Spread cream cheese on them? What is this, refreshments for a piano recital? Go eat some yogurt."

Michael scrunches his nose up. "At least one of us can."

"Aw, did I upset you? Go cry to Kay, I'm sure she'll listen to your whining."

" _You're_ the one who always whines."

"Coming from the biggest baby in the world. Ten years old and you still gotta sleep with mommy—so much for the double-digits."

Michael turns and walks away with solemn dignity. _He just got toasted,_ Thomas thinks, but there's only so much he can congratulate himself for putting Michael in his place before guilt creeps in like a draft.

On the way to see a movie, he rides in the back of the car, playing games on his phone, while Michael rides shotgun and makes lively chatter with Kay. They've both read the book the film is based on, plus the latest reviews discussing the merits of the adaptation. He doesn't know or care about the story at all. It's just another way to stave off boredom. He splits off from them in the theater to sit closer to the screen, falls asleep halfway through the movie, and wakes up with his mouth dry and limbs stiff. He's thirsty and his soda cup is empty, so he heads out of the theater for a drink of water, then decides to wait out the last twenty minutes in the lobby. It'll be worth it when Michael and Kay fret over his obvious disinterest and miserable mood. But with the thick crowd that oozes out of the theater when the movie ends, they don't seem to think anything of it when they find him waiting for them. They just get into the car and drive home again.

As he and Michael brush their teeth in the bathroom, Thomas looks at Michael's mirrored reflection—Michael's soft expression, the toothbrush crooked in his mouth—and feels the pull of a bottomless shame, a pining loneliness so acute that it makes him queasy for a moment. But it passes. On this night, Michael doesn't even bother climbing into his own bed—he goes straight to Kay's room. Thomas stands in the hall for a moment, then wanders into their bedroom (well, maybe just his now) and turns off the overhead light. He stands in the desk light's faint warm glow and the light from the moon rising behind him. Stands over his bed and tries not to let dark emotions seize him. Then he climbs under the covers and shivers a little. Checks his texts, like always. Still nothing.

Kay knocks on his door and opens it.

"You need anything? Glass of water?"

He turns over. "I'm fine."

She tries to pet him, but he smacks her hand away. "Stop it. I'm not a baby."

"Nervous about Saturday?" It's the regional qualifier. He still hasn't finalized his deck.

"I'll figure it out."

"All right." She hollers over her shoulder. "Michael? Did you want to say goodnight?" There's no answer. Kay turns out the light. "Sleep well."

He lies awake and wonders what Chris is up to. Chris would usually text him around this time of night. Thomas figures it's either the time he gets off from work or the time he finishes eating dinner, but he's never asked. He reaches for his phone and pulls up their messages.

 _Whatever you feel is right._ The last thing Chris said to him. He types a note.

_I'm sorry for all my bullshit. will you please just talk to me again?_

But he can't quite press send. It would kill him to get no response. He deletes the text and puts the phone face down on the pillow next to him.

* * *

The lunch table is abuzz with the plans for regionals.

"So who's got a ride?"

"My mom said she'd take us, as long as nobody's too far... Thomas, you live over by Garden Square, right?"

"Yeah... but I don't want your mom going out of her way for me. I was thinking I'd be doing my own thing."

"Dude, the squad needs to roll together. And you're kind of our star."

How is he supposed to nicely tell these idiots that he doesn't want to be seen within a stone's throw of them, under any circumstances?

"Look, the squad is great, I'm not questioning that, but this is the real deal... I'd really prefer to ride solo. With club approval, of course."

There's some nervous laughter. "So like, what's that mean?"

He takes a breath and looks straight at the club chief. "We're not a tag-team. We're all entering separately... we don't need to look like the scouts, do we? Nobody ordered matching shirts, right?" He laughs at his own joke to defuse the tension. It doesn't do much.

"What's the point of acting like we don't know each other? Why can't we just hang out and stuff?"

The others chime in. "My dad said we could go for pizza afterward."

"Aren't we supposed to have a chaperone anyway, if it's a school-sponsored trip? That way the club pays our entrance fees. Someone filled out the form for that, right?"

"Oh, shit! That was like, two months ago! Whose parents signed on?"

"We'd still need everyone else's parents to sign a release."

"Can't we go door-to-door? Bring a bunch of forms, have them sign on the spot, then get in the car?"

The last thing Thomas is going to do is have Kay write _Relationship: Other legal guardian_ on a piece of paper so he can hop in a station wagon with a band of merry morons.

"I can't get a signature," he cuts in. "No one's going to be home at my place."

"What?" The club chief gives him a suspicious look. "Then how were you planning on getting to the regionals?"

Shit. He fucked up. The table gets quiet.

"Come on, Thomas. You're squad. Ride together, die together."

He swallows. Just like last time, there's an eerie, total glee in letting his mask slip off. "Well then, I hope you all die together, you fucking tools."

There's a dumbfounded silence. Thomas just laughs.

"Yeah," the club chief says. "Okay. That's not fucked up, or anything."

"Oh, shut your face. You dehydrated little turds think you're even in my league? How many of you have even come close to beating me? Fucking no one. You're more like a bunch shitty _fans_. I hate _all_ your little bitch asses, and if I see you in the qualifier I'm gonna stomp you so hard your mothers cry." He's getting excited now, pulling on his backpack for a bold exit. "You know what? Don't even talk to me, ever again, or I'll fucking slug you in the mouth. Actually, you should _be_ so grateful." He reaches across the table, grabs the club chief's deck, and throws it in his face. Three seconds later, he's the one being slugged in the mouth. By the time the cafeteria monitors manage to pry the club chief off of Thomas, he's taken a hard kick to the ribs and a nasty scratch across the right side of his face, so deep that the nurse has to tape gauze to his cheek.

It would all be ironic and hilarious if it weren't for the school's zero-tolerance policy. Any involvement in a fight earns an automatic suspension—even if he acted in self-defense, or never threw a single punch. Thomas's expression goes from smug to stunned.

"What kind of a policy is that? That doesn't even _pretend_ to be fair!"

The club chief glares at him.

"It's the rule everywhere in the district. Everyone knows that. Sucks to be homeschooled, I guess."

Kay drives him home in total silence.

"I'll tell you what," he says as she's pulling the car in. "Let me go to the qualifier tomorrow, and I'll have no allowance for six months."

She sighs. "I'll think about it."

"No allowance _or_ TV. Think about it."

"You really wanna negotiate your own punishment?"

"Absolutely!" Here he goes. He's finally playing his trump card. "I feel so, so terrible about what happened... I deserve whatever I have coming to me. And after you've been such a good parent! Thanks to my petty drama, you had to abandon your work in the middle of the day... I just don't know how I'll ever forgive myself." Kay looks tired. Thomas senses weakness. "Please let me know how I can make it up to you. I love you, Kay. You've really rescued me... I was so scared and alone until you came along."

She just stares at him. "Thomas, what is this? This thing you do."

"What 'thing?' What are you talking about?" He sounds too frantic, too high-strung.

She looks as though she's about to say something, but the words never come out. "Come on," she says. "It's cold out here."

Thomas follows her up the steps. "I still don't know what you're talking about," he calls ahead to her. "I'm just telling you how I feel. From the heart. Isn't that what you're always asking me to do?"

"You better stop being smart."

Oh, he can't resist. "But Kay, I'm the smartest in my class!"

She whips her head around. "Then act like it. You're not an exception to everything."

"Then why would you tell me I'm such a smart boy?" Is he actually tearing up a little? It's got to be the cold wind.

"We'll talk about this later," she says, turning the key in the lock. "I had to walk out on a very important call."

"No, we'll talk about it _now!_ " He throws his weight against the door, strips his shoes and backpack off. "You'd seriously side with that unfair school policy? You don't give a shit about hearing what happened to me!"

Kay walks in and closes the door gently. She hangs up her coat and the car keys.

"I think you're scared of the _man_ ," he says. "The school board, social services, whoever—you'll do what they say. You want the power _they_ have, 'cause you're afraid of what would happen if I got out of line."

"I'm not afraid of a few suspensions," she says. "Life is longer than that."

"Wow! You _extra_ don't care! Awesome! I guess that's why you're not my mom!"

"You know what, you'll have a lifetime to blame me, Chris, your father, whoever for not loving you enough. But right now, I've got one job, and that's making sure you get up in the morning, eat breakfast, go to school, and learn. Because I care about you, and I want to see you succeed."

"Well, mission accomplished. I've learned a lot today about how the world isn't fair. Except I already knew that!"

"I know you've heard plenty of people tell you this or that is for your own good," she says. "But guess what."

"I don't have to guess. You're the same as every other dumb caseworker or therapist—you think you'll figure out what I need, and then I'll jump to your whims like a puppet. All I need is for you to _die._ " He blinks back furious tears. "I wish you would _burn in hell_."

Her expression doesn't change at all. Thomas is stung by the distinct impression that she's not hearing these words for the first time.

"I'm going to ask you one thing," she says. "When Michael gets home, don't redirect your frustration onto him. You won't be hurting me that way."

"Yeah, poor, precious Michael! Who won't even talk to me anymore, 'cause he's _your_ favorite—screw you both!"

"All right, then. You go ahead to your room, I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Thomas slams his bedroom door and flings himself onto the mattress. Tears burn his eyes, and he doesn't stay down long. He pulls a book from Michael's shelf. _Art of Mesoamerica,_ young reader's fourth edition. He rips out a handful of the color plates, tears those in half, and litters them on the ground. He rifles through Michael's library, giving a few other books the same treatment. He opens a pencil case and breaks all the pencils in half. There's a bottle of India ink. He pours it all over the carpet and the bedspreads, cuts open the pillows with craft scissors and dumps the feathers. He rips buttons off of clothes and throws them out the window, crumples important papers and stuffs them into shoes, mutilates charging cords and bends electrical prongs.

It's not enough. He doesn't feel satisfied, only more anxious as the impact of his actions begins to sink in. There's only one way he can _really_ teach them both a lesson.

He pokes his head into the living room. Like a sign from God, Kay's wallet is sitting there on the coffee table. There's enough money inside to take him wherever he wants to go.

* * *

He's not going to make stupid mistakes and get caught. He hoofs it a few blocks to the library (the last place Kay or Michael would ever think to look for him), dials a cab, and waits hidden in the stacks until it arrives out front. He asks to be taken to the farthest train station, one stop north—not the one they'd go to, if they suspected what he had in mind. It's in the cab that his phone rings. Kay is about to catch on. He blocks her number. He puts the phone in airplane mode and turns off the wi-fi so he can't be tracked.

It's well past 4:30 by the time he gets to the station, and the sun has already dipped below the horizon. He buys a one-way train ticket to Heartland, flashing his school ID at the ticket clerk. Then he buys a bag of roasted peanuts and a bar of milk chocolate. Shit. He forgot his lactase pills at home. He throws the chocolate away and eats the peanuts.

He's antsy while waiting for the train. If Kay moves quickly, she could have the police alerted and searching for him already. He's hiding his haircut beneath a hood, and he threw away the gauze taped to his face, but his neon running shoes are a dead giveaway. He tries to blend in with a group of hooded teens jawing beneath an archway on the platform. A uniformed officer passes them, leading a K-9 on a leash. He doesn't seem to notice Thomas. The teens stare at the cop and the dog with a practiced, stylish caginess. Then they frown at him, short and stumpy and unwelcome. If only they knew he was on the run.

The express train arrives and he boards. The teens don't. Who knows what they're waiting for. It's rush hour, but the inbound train is nearly empty. Thomas takes a seat on the upper level. The conductor punches his ticket without a word or a glance.

Lonely miles fly by through the green tint of the window. Empty lots, car dealerships, warehouses, public storage facilities. Friendly billboards loom above highways, advertising insurance, draft beers, foundering radio stations, 24-hour diners. The things people on a journey need. Thomas feels the beginnings of regret gnawing at him, but it's too late now. Nothing to do but go through with it. The night and its infinite garlands of street lights stretch out before him. The train's horn blows on and on, the sound that used to rouse him from his dreams—but he's awake now, and miles to go before he sleeps.

The express makes a stop in the borough just south of Heartland before reaching its final destination. There are no police waiting for him when he dismounts there. He turns his phone completely off to conserve the battery. Then he waits about fifteen minutes for an inbound bus, shivering in the wet and freezing wind. After a long, anxious ride, he recognizes the buildings of the financial district and pulls the signal for a stop. The rain has turned to sleet, and is really coming down now. A bank clock shows 9:12 pm. He knows where the next bus is supposed to stop, but not when. Huddled inside the bus shelter, he watches ten minutes tick by on the clock, then twenty. The bus schedule has been effaced by vandals.

Soon thirty minutes have passed, then forty. By forty-five minutes, the cobblestones have accumulated a light dusting of snow. His hands are stinging with cold in the pockets of his windbreaker. He can no longer feel his nose or upper lip. There isn't enough money left for a cab, and his phone battery is desperately low. Why did he have to play with so many stupid apps on the train? He tries to think clearly. Phone or money—which is the more precious of the two resources? With the phone, he could call for help even if he ran out of money. So maybe that's the one to conserve. But if he used it first, and wisely, the money could still put hot food in his stomach, which sounds pretty good. He hasn't eaten a real meal in nine hours.

Maybe he should take his chances and hail a cab he can't pay for. But there are all sorts of things that could go wrong with that plan.

The plaza is totally empty. All the bankers have gone home for the weekend. Thomas can see the snow whirling beneath the glow of the streetlights. The thrill of his stunt wore off hours ago. He's cold, wet, hungry, and miserable—he's got to do something. He turns on his phone and texts Chris.

_I'm underneath the clock in the heartland financial plaza. come and get me._

He gets a reply within a minute.

_On my way._

* * *

Chris directs the car's driver back to the lab. "You can use the expressway on your way back. It's only about thirty minutes. Take exit 14. Just keep an eye out, it's on the far side of the road."

Thomas observes his brother as discretely as possible. He isn't in a hurry to catch Chris's eye, and from the looks of it, the feeling is mutual. Chris is outwardly unreadable—he doesn't seem angry, but Thomas knows if there's going to be any scolding, it won't happen in public.

Chris's hair is a mess, with strands hanging loose from his braid and in his eyes. His mouth is hidden behind the upturned collar of a Faker Labs fleece. Thomas casts his gaze to the floor and notices that Chris is wearing his bed socks jammed into a pair of loafers.

The warm car brings Thomas's hands and feet back to life. It makes him sleepy, too, but Chris's occasional words to the driver snap him out of the light doze that's rolling in on his brain like a fog. He's vaguely aware of the glow of Chris's phone. Probably texting Kay.

The downtown district recedes as they push further north, and the lab tower soon looms into view. The driver pulls the car up to the front security gate, and Chris opens the passenger door.

"We're walking from here?"

"Yes."

"Can't he drive us in?"

"I'm not admitting him as a guest."

"It's not like he's staying."

"Thomas."

"Okay, fine."

Chris shows his ID at the gate. Thomas stares at the open palm Chris extends toward him before he realizes Chris needs his ID, too. He fumbles in each of his pockets, but all that comes out are wrappers and receipts.

"I can't find it."

"Seriously?"

"I had it earlier! It must have gotten lost somewhere." Just when he thought the worst of the night was over. Chris sighs deeply and explains the situation to the security officer, who clearly knows Chris and proves understanding 

Thomas hasn't seen the lab in years. Beneath humming orange lights, they trudge past what he thinks is the main access gate and follow a sidewalk through a soggy courtyard surrounded by ground entrances to contiguous modern buildings joined by covered walkways. They key into Residential Block B, fill out an overnight stay permit at the security desk, and take one of two elevators to the fourth floor, where they follow a series of corridors down to a breathtaking atrium lit with yellow and violet lights. Chris doesn't slow down to let Thomas admire the view. He slips into one of the doors along the balcony.

Chris's living area is spare and efficient. There's a small lounging space with a sofa and two chairs, a compact kitchen separated by a half-wall, and a bed pushed into the corner. Thomas slips his shoes off, but before he can say anything to Chris, he's startled by another boy emerging from the kitchen. The boy's about his age and stirring a saucepan.

"Chris," the boy says, "just in time! Your noodles are almost ready."

"You're a lifesaver." Chris shrugs off his fleece. "Kaito, this is Thomas."

So the other kid gets the first introduction. Is he Chris's roommate? Thomas sizes him up. He's scrawny and pale, wearing an oversized shirt cuffed at the elbows and his hair slicked back into some sort of pointed ducktail. Looks like he stepped out of a black and white yearbook photo—total nerd. Probably another career tracker.

"Hey." Thomas pulls his sweatshirt over his head and uses it to towel the dampness out of his hair.

"I poached some eggs, too," the kid says to Chris. He seems unsure what to do about Thomas. "They were the last ones, I'm sorry about that... but I thought..."

"No, that's wonderful—thank you so much." Chris heads toward the bathroom. "Just give me a minute, I've got to wring out my hair."

Kaito beams at him. Thomas sits down on the couch and waits for some sort of an explanation, but the other kid just wanders back into the kitchen, whistling a tune. He brings out three bowls filled with noodles, topped with black bean sauce and thinly sliced cucumber. Even though the food smells good, Thomas feels a pang of irritation.

"Kaito, huh? You live here?" he asks.

Kaito shakes his head. "Chris said he had to go out for an emergency, so I came over to make him a late dinner. You're the older of his brothers, right? I've heard a lot about you."

Thomas bites into his poached egg. "Yeah, well, I've never heard of you."

That puts the kid in his place. He perches on the edge of a chair in silence until Chris comes out of the bathroom. Then he's falling all over himself to serve Chris,here you go, careful it's hot, and what do you want to drink? Thomas helps himself to Kaito's egg in the meantime.

They eat quietly together—two from exhaustion, one from deference. It's only after he's finished his bowl and thanked Kaito that Chris directs a word to Thomas. "The next train doesn't run until morning," he says. "So you're stuck here for the night."

"I figured that."

"Kay will come and get you. She says she probably won't make it out until the afternoon. Michael's got regionals in the morning."

He scowls. The last thing he wants to think about is missing the qualifier. "Fine," he says.

"I work a half-day tomorrow. If you need anything before 1:00, Kaito will help you."

"Nice of him."

"Thomas."

"What?"

Chris is giving him a peculiar look, as though he's far away. They stare at each other, searching each other's faces for clues, for permission to be truthful. It's a standoff.

Kaito clears his throat. "I can come over and check on him in the morning, Chris."

"No thanks—I'll be fine."

Chris nods to Kaito. "I'd appreciate it if you could." They speak over Thomas like he's not even there. "Don't worry about getting yourself up too early—he'll sleep until at least 10."

"Heh. Wish I could do the same."

Thomas glances at Chris's bedside clock. It's after midnight. Why won't this busybody nerd just beat it? But Chris takes his cue and tells Kaito they should probably head to bed. After more effusions of modesty and gratitude on both sides, Kaito gets up and leaves. Chris puts his head in his hands and lets out an ominous sigh as Kaito's footsteps echo down the hallway. Thomas braces himself. He's about to get it. Or is he? What would be worse—to be scolded or ignored? Every second lasts an hour. Chris finally raises his head to look at him.

"What happened to your face?"

Thomas brushes his cheek with his fingertips. It's still swollen around the gash where his ex-friend dug his nails in.

"I fought someone," he says.

Chris moves over and sits next to him on the sofa. He puts one hand on Thomas's jaw and tilts his brother's head to get a better look. "Is it a scar?"

"No, it just happened today. Quit staring. It's not that bad."

Chris smiles slightly. "A single flaw on a handsome face adds some character."

"Please."

Chris places a heavy hand on his shoulder. They share a few seconds of silence. This is the moment Thomas has been waiting for—it's the one he pictured when he left the apartment this afternoon. Chris worried for him, relieved to see him, giving Thomas his undivided care and attention. A flood of trouble would reunite them and wash their mutual anger away. Instead, it's washed away his bearings. Is this person his brother? Who hardly speaks to him, condescends to him, confides in a stranger? He tries to speak but the words won't come out. Chris is still looking thoughtful. "Tomorrow's a new day," he says. He sounds defeated.

Thomas puts on one of Chris's nightshirts. It's almost down to his knees. While Chris sits on the edge of the bed and re-braids his hair, Thomas crawls under the covers and faces the wall. He wishes Michael were here. Then at least there wouldn't be this painful silence. His eyes sting, but he shuts them tight. What did he think would happen? He's just a stupid, spoiled kid in the end. Even his own brothers know it.

* * *

Chris is gone when he wakes up, and Kaito has already let himself into the apartment. He's whistling again, this time making pancakes. Thomas smooths his hair and shuffles over to the stove.

"That had better be almond milk."

"It is. Chris told me about your allergy."

"It's not an allergy _,_ it's an intolerance."

Kaito goes back to whistling.

"Would you stop that? It's annoying. Woke me up."

"About time."

"I didn't need you to check in on me. I'm not about to go and run off somewhere else."

"I came to make you breakfast. Isn't it obvious?"

Thomas leans against the counter and yawns. It's not as if he enjoys picking a fight first thing in the morning. He watches Kaito flip a pancake into the air expertly, no spatula.

"Nice catch," he says.

"Thanks."

"How'd you learn to do that?"

"Practice. You know what Chris is always saying... do a thing thirty times until you master it."

He's never heard Chris say that. Thomas takes a bite out of one of Kaito's pancakes and puts it back on top of the stack. "Not bad."

Kaito's unfazed. "Chris has taught me a lot about cooking," he says. "Really helped me expand my repertoire. He must have taught you too, right?"

"Not really."

"That's a shame. Well, it's different for me... when you have a little brother to look after, you have to be resourceful."

"I also have a little brother," Thomas deadpans.

Kaito seems to be choosing his words carefully. "Look," he says, "I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, somehow." The _somehow_ carries a hint of passive aggression. "But I'd like to start over, if we can. We're only a year apart, and I'm your brother's pupil."

"His _what?_ "

"He's teaching me to duel."

Of course. Dueling lessons to pick up a little extra cash. It makes sense now—that's why Chris would associate with this nerd. He's probably got rich parents to go with his lack of social skills.

"Lucky you," Thomas says. "Chris taught me, too. He's the best. Could probably turn pro if he wasn't into all this—" He waves his hand. "—science fair shit."

He eats the pancakes with jam and orange juice, takes a long shower while Kaito cleans up, then puts on his clothes from yesterday. It's already noon, and Kaito says he's stayed long enough—it's time for him to go back to his brother. He invites Thomas to accompany him.

"The lab has gotten pretty nice," Thomas remarks as he follows Kaito down the hallway. "Did they add this wing? I don't remember it."

"There were some additions last year. I guess you haven't seen the indoor courtyard... that's where we're headed."

They take an elevator up a few floors. The apartments are fewer on the upper level—Thomas suspects Kaito lives in a nicer suite than Chris, but he's still surprised when Kaito leads them to a pair of thick double doors at the end of a hallway. He leaves Thomas outside, and returns pushing a small boy in a wheelchair.

"This is Haruto," he says. "Haruto, this is Chris's brother."

Haruto doesn't say anything. Kaito bends down next to him.

"Would you like to go for a walk? We can circle around the courtyard, and then have lunch when Chris gets off his shift." Haruto nods.

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Does the lunch date come complementary with your lessons?"

Kaito just stares at him. Thomas has an uneasy feeling again. He can't quite put his finger on it—or he doesn't want to.

* * *

Kaito talks to Haruto about everything they see—the seasonal decorations, the blooming of the indoor orchids, doves pecking at seeds in the fresh snow—but he directs a fair amount of conversation at Thomas, mostly about Chris.

"Not to demean the rest of the research staff," he says, "but Chris is brilliant. I never knew your father, but everyone says he's just like him. He's got this quality that puts people at ease. Right, Haruto?"

Haruto, who hasn't said more than a word or two the entire time, tilts his head to look at them. "He's strong," he says.

Kaito glows. "Right? He's an incredible duelist..." His face softens. "But he's strong at heart, too. I mean, he has to be, after everything he's been through."

Thomas shoves his hands in his pockets. "You don't even know the half of it."

"I do. He's told me everything."

"Oh yeah?"

"He worries a lot about you, you know."

"Tch. If he was that worried, maybe he'd keep in touch more."

"You say that, but you don't know how stressed he's been..."

"Hey, I don't remember asking you to weigh in."

They've stopped walking. Kaito lets go of the handlebars of Haruto's wheelchair and squares his body against Thomas's. "You really think this all about you, huh?"

"Who else is it about? You?"

"Chris is important to me. You show up here in the middle of the night, acting like _we're_ inconveniencing _you_..."

"Oh my god, just save it. I'm allergic to bullshit."

"Allergy, or intolerance?"

This fucker is more of a smartass than he thought.

"Listen, you nosy nerd... my family's problems are none of your business. You think you're the good guy here, just cause you can heat up some noodles? Like playing nursemaid to your brother isn't enough for you... seems like you've got some sort of martyr complex."

But the picture's all coming together. Kaito gets a text from Chris, telling them he's on his way down, and Thomas finally gets it. This is why Chris has been so distant, why he doesn't care about resolving their disputes, and why he even ignores Michael. He's replaced them.

Kaito leans down to Haruto's level. "They're serving fettuccine alfredo today, Haruto... you like that, remember?" He turns to Thomas. "You haven't seen the new cafeteria, have you?"

"Forget it. I'm going back to the room."

"You don't have a key."

"You do."

"I'm not giving it to you."

"Hand it over." He gets right up in Kaito's face, giving him a good look at his battle scar.

Kaito reluctantly obliges. "Chris isn't going to be happy."

"On the contrary, I think he'll be very happy. You all have fun."

* * *

So this is it, then. The unthinkable has happened—he's lost Chris. Who knows if they'll ever be a family again. Kay will never trust him again, either, and Michael—his heart aches for Michael. His sweet little brother, who he was supposed to look after—who loved him unconditionally! How could he have been so cruel? The more Michael reached out to him, the more he punished Michael and drove him away. Kaito may be a tool, but at least he seems dutiful—surely Chris wishes Thomas would be more like that.

Thomas throws his shoes on the floor and screams. What's the matter with him? Why is he so blind and selfish? Why does he always act so cocky, only to end up at the bottom of the heap? He's always known he was different—in his hubris, he thought he was better than the average jerk. Turns out he's not. He's alone and worthless.

He takes a can of juice out of Chris's fridge and chugs it furiously. Leaning against the counter, he spots the jar of jam from breakfast, now empty and soaking in the sink. It's the raspberry jam he and Michael sent. All used up. He ate the last of it without even realizing.

He gags on the juice, just as Chris walks into the apartment and jumps into action.

"Are you choking?"

He keeps coughing.

"Thomas, do you need help?"

His eyes are watering. He puts his palm out to refuse, but Chris interprets it as a beckoning gesture and dashes into position for a Heimlich maneuver. Thomas manages to gasp out "No" before Chris forces the rest of the air out of his lungs.

He's on his knees in a puddle of juice, spit, and tears. "What the hell," he chokes out. Why can't Chris understand him? But suddenly Chris is on his knees, too, embracing him. The vanilla smell of his hair is familiar. Thomas catches his breath, but the tears don't stop.

"I'm so sorry," Chris is saying. "I wish I hadn't done this to you. I wish things could be different. I..." Is he crying, too?

Thomas clutches at the back of Chris's lab coat. Chris pulls him closer, stroking the back of his head.

"You've grown up so much, in such a short time," he says. "You both have. Honestly... I don't know how you've managed. Here I am, surrounded by my people, and I don't have the faintest clue what I'm doing." He laughs, but Thomas can hear him sniffling. "God, you must be so disappointed in me. I don't even blame you."

They lean back to wipe their eyes and look at each other, scared of what they'll see at first, but each softening to the other's vulnerability. Thomas has never seen Chris cry like this before. Even at their father's memorial, he only shed a few solemn tears.

"You're all I have left," Chris says. He bows his head, shielding his face beneath his bangs. "Do you have any idea how scared I was last night, when you disappeared? I never should have pushed you away. It's just—sometimes it was the only way I could deal. I think about you every day, and if I could believe that you and Michael were happy somewhere else, without me... you know, maybe that's easier than missing you so much. Knowing I can never take back all the ways I've failed you." He wipes his nose unceremoniously on his sleeve. "I'm sure it doesn't do you any good, to hear me whining about my own guilt..."

"But I know how you feel." Thomas folds his arms around himself. "I lied and said a lot of bullshit. And I abandoned Michael. Twice." He trembles. "I've fucked up so much. I shit on everyone."

"Thomas..."

"I'm total garbage. Everything I do proves it."

Chris grabs his shoulders. "Stop that. Don't ever say that again."

He sniffs. "It's true, though."

"If Dad could hear you right now, he wouldn't allow it. He _loved_ you. He believed you could do incredible things."

"He was an idiot." Chris snatches his wrist. "Ow! Let go..."

Chris's wet eyes are blazing with emotion. "Don't speak that way about him." Thomas just whimpers. Chris pulls him close again. "Dad loved all of us. Even though he's gone, his love is still here. It's a part of the world. It's been cast into being, like a stream of particles. It reforms, again and again, through us..."

"Fuck you," Thomas wails into Chris's shoulder. "I don't want to hear your science poetry."

Chris holds him tight. His tears drip onto Thomas's neck. "I've been so caught up in one part of his legacy," he says. "Because I don't know what to do about the other half." He runs his fingers through Thomas's hair. "I read all of your texts, everything you send me..."

"Even the memes?"

"I love your memes..." He rubs a palm on his own flushed cheek. "Even when I don't understand them."

They sit there for a while. Breathing together, holding each other.

* * *

_When are you coming_

_About 4:00. We're driving... left a few hours ago. How are you doing?_

_Fine. how was regionals_

_Michael didn't want to go. He was exhausted from crying all night. Made him take a nap before we got in the car._

_Will you put him on. thx_

_Hi Thomas._

_Hi michael. im sorry about your books_

_It's ok. They're just books... they can't replace you._

_I have a lot of stuff i want to say to you_

_Me too. I love you, OK?_

_Same_

* * *

It's only a little after 3:30, but the sun is sinking fast. Chris opens the blinds, and they sit together on the bed and watch the city below, fuzzy seasonal music playing faintly from Chris's old clock radio. The first snow of the year always makes everything look soft and pure. Even balcony furniture, left out on the decks of the apartment buildings across the highway, has gotten a dusting. A slight change in the surface, and the world is reinvented—the same things that were always there, bright and new.

The radio goes to commercial break. "Again? Who even listens to this stuff anymore? It's like 80% ads."

"It's kind of nostalgic, isn't it?"

"For someone on the cutting edge, I wouldn't expect you to be so stuck in the past."

Chris laughs. "No, you're right. I like the future."

Thomas rests his head on Chris's shoulder.

"You're still coming down for Christmas, right?"

"Of course."

"There's a ice skating rink near our apartment. We should all go. You know how to skate, right? You can teach us."

"Don't you remember when Mom taught you?"

Thomas looks at him.

"It was right before she died. I guess you were almost three. Mom and I used to skate on the pond behind the hill... you wanted to go too, so she put my old skates on you and guided you around... I guess we figured you'd fall down and get frustrated, but you were a natural." He smiles. "You got the hang of it right away. You were so determined to chase after her."

"I don't remember."

"Muscle memory is persistent. Maybe it'll all come back to you."

"You're joking..."

"Sort of."

"Chris..."

"Hm?"

"Do you think... this is a stupid question."

"Do I think what is a stupid question?"

"The heart is a muscle, right?"

"Yes. The heart is made of cardiac muscle." His phone buzzes. "Oh. They're downstairs already."

"Don't you have to sign them in?"

"I registered their passes from my phone."

"You can do that now?"

"Are you surprised?" He grins at Thomas. "It's the future."

* * *

Michael looks tiny on the floor of the atrium, or maybe it's just the huge tiles. He's sitting with Kay on the wide stone ledge of the fountain. Thomas waves to them from the upper balcony. He's too distant to get their attention, but when the elevator doors open, Michael leaps up, dashes across the floor, and nearly tackles him in a bear hug.

"Hey, watch it... you're gonna knock me over."

Michael buries his face in Thomas's sweatshirt.

"You okay?"

"Please, please, please don't ever do that again." He looks up when Chris pats his head. "Hi, Chris."

Kay wanders over and gives Chris a nod. "You want to take a walk? Let these two have a moment to sort things out?"

Chris agrees. Thomas and Michael shuffle back toward the fountain, unsure of what to say. Michael seems determined to make an opening statement, but he's clearly nervous. He pulls on the sleeves of his wool sweater and summons the courage to make eye contact.

"For a lot of reasons, I want to say I'm sorry," he says. "For being so nasty to you, and for acting like a baby." His gaze drops by shy habit, but he tries to hold it steady, with mixed success. "I thought if acted like I didn't care, you'd feel sorry and apologize. But all I did was hurt you more."

"Jeez, do you actually think I'm that stupid? Don't you realize I did the exact same thing to you?"

Michael sniffs. "Well, it worked! Because now I'm really, really sorry!"

"Please don't cry..."

He thought he'd drained the waterworks earlier with Chris, but apparently not, because in under a minute they're both a soggy, snotty mess. 

"I know I do a lot of messed up stuff," Thomas says. "I wish I wouldn't be so dumb all the time."

"You aren't dumb! You're the greatest!"

"I wish I'd never done this. I wasn't mad at you... I just felt like a fuck-up. I still kinda do."

Michael wipes his face on his shirt collar. "It was like when Dad went missing, all over again. If anything ever happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

"Michael—!"

Michael throws his arms around Thomas. "It feels like you're going away. I don't know how to explain it. I know you're not really, but you weren't like this before. It used to be funny when you got angry, like in my dream... now it really hurts you. It all adds up. And I can't help... I'm just watching it happen, like a..." He hesitates. "...fucking idiot."

"Hey. Watch your goddamn language."

It gets a small laugh out of him, but he sniffles and clings harder, wetting Thomas's sweater. "I'm not brave like you and Chris," he says. "You're both clever and strong and good at being on your own, but I need you. I'd do anything to stay with you, but I don't know how to make it so you want me around."

"Oh my god, you big dumb baby! _You're_ the one _I_ need, isn't that obvious?"

Michael looks up at him, huge tears dribbling from his eyes.

"After dad died, I got so messed up! I started hating everything and everyone, and the whole time, you didn't change. You could still love people and be kind to them. All I could do was be selfish." Thomas knits his hands behind Michael's neck. Michael rests his head against Thomas's sweater, week-old grease stains and all. He reaches behind his ears and clasps Thomas's hands with his. Thomas sighs. His nerves are frayed, but he's got to get the words out this time. "Earlier today, I think I realized something. When everything's all about you, then everything bad is your fault, too. But it _wasn't_ all my fault. Getting separated from Chris, and the group home, moving around, having to grow up fast... those were just bad things that happened. For some reason, I thought there _was_ a reason. But there wasn't." He bends down on one knee and gives Michael a proper hug, pressing their cheeks together. "But you were there for all of it. You're the only one who knows what it was like. I don't know what I'd do without you... you're my best friend in the world."

Michael squeezes him back and sobs. "You're mine, too."

"I love you more than anything. You and Chris are the most important... the most..." He can't finish it. He's completely choked up. "Fuck."

"The most fuck."

"I said watch your fucking mouth! You can put _two_ coins in the swear jar."

Michael smiles, rubbing his eyes. "It's mostly your money in there."

"What are we saving up to buy with the swear jar?"

"I don't think you buy anything. I think the point is that you don't get a reward."

"Then what happens to the money?"

"I think it goes to charity."

"What kind of message is that? Giving to charity is a punishment?"

Michael is laughing now. Thomas fantasizes about today being the day he stops swearing—plus he'll never lie again, bathe regularly, do all of his homework _and_ the extra credit... well, it's a beautiful dream. None of it will ever happen, but maybe things could change a little. Maybe they already have.

"Do you want these?" Michael reaches into his shoulder zip pouch and pulls out a pair of snickerdoodles wrapped in thin paper. "We stopped for lunch on the way. I got them for you." Thomas is about to protest that they're probably soaked in butter, but Michael produces the lactase bottle from the pouch, a mischievous smile on his face.

Thomas laughs out loud. "You actually brought that?"

"I'm just glad you didn't flush all the pills down the toilet when you lost your cool."

"I didn't even think of that."

They sit together on the ledge and have a cookie each. Across the atrium, Chris and Kay are circling back around. They're leaning toward each other, discussing something with fervor. Thomas wipes the crumbs off his face with a fist and takes a long look at Michael, then slings an arm around his shoulder and plants a kiss on his forehead. "Thanks," he says quietly. "For looking out for me."

Michael nuzzles him back. "I gotta."

As Chris and Kay wander toward them, both seeming in pleasant spirits, Thomas and Michael squeeze hands. Chris walks up and pets the back of Michael's head. "How did it go?"

Michael smiles up at Chris. "We're okay."

Chris tries to scoop him up, but nearly drops Michael in the fountain, saved only by the ledge. "All right," he says, "it's official—you're too big for carrying." While Michael tries to hop on his back instead, Thomas turns awkwardly to Kay.

"So, uh... everyone seems happy. How much trouble am I in?"

"Plenty. You'll have all the time you need to negotiate on the way home." She pats his shoulder. "But you know, I'm optimistic. I think we've had what the folks in the business call a _teachable moment_."

He curls his lip. "Don't get smug. I know what a teachable moment is. What were you and Chris talking about?"

"Networking."

"What's that?"

Chris chimes in. "She knows STEM people, I know STEM people... There are software positions opening all the time in Heartland."

Thomas whips his head back to Kay. "Are you serious?"

Michael gets excited. "What? Serious about what?"

"Look, no one is offering me a job. No promises."

"But you're thinking about it."

"I wouldn't worry about that right now if I were you."

"Are you full of shit, or not?"

"We'll just have to wait and see, okay?" She holds out her hands. "Come here, babe."

They embrace. Thomas isn't going to cry for the third time in a day, but he missed this. Being in Kay's arms again feels good. She rubs his back and kisses the top of his head. "Love you, kid."

"Love you, Mom."

She seems caught off-guard. Thomas cranes his neck. There's the faintest crack in her placid expression.

"What?" he asks.

"Heh... nothing." She beams at him. "Would you believe no one's ever called me that before?"


End file.
